


Vox Populi

by Aelwyn



Series: Vox Populi [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assassin's Creed (2016), Assassin's Creed (Video Game), CANON-COMPLIANT THROUGH AC: ODYSSEY (2019), Cross-Posted on Wattpad, Eagle Vision (Assassin's Creed), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Canon Divergence but stays as close to established canon as possible, Mild Language, No Sex, No Smut, Oliver Bowden Novelisations Referenced, Rated Mature for Violence and Clay's death ONLY, Set in the Modern Storyline during and post- 2016 Movie events, The Animus (Assassin's Creed), Watch Dogs (mentioned)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2020-08-18 20:28:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 38
Words: 95,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20197678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aelwyn/pseuds/Aelwyn
Summary: Stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent.Hide in plain sight.Never compromise the Brotherhood.If one were to say, back in 2012, that these three Tenets of the Assassin's Creed were absolute, Desmond would have laughed. With Abstergo around, who was truly innocent? With security cameras at every stoplight, where could one hide? What Brotherhood? All anyone had ever done was betray him.But after escaping an Abstergo Animus project in Madrid in 2016, those three tenets are more important than ever.Cut off from the Brotherhood, Desmond must make do with his own team of Animus-trained Assassins and he finally understands. The innocent are blind to the Templar plan. It is possible to hide in a digital world through skill and precision. The Brotherhood are the only family any of them have. They may not be mainstream Assassins, but they are Assassins all the same.The problem is that they need a leader, and Desmond's the only one with any modern day experience. But does that make him a Mentor? Maybe not, but some pesky ancestral voices inside his head are more than willing to help him figure it out...The Assassins are far from beaten. And Desmond Lives.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: ALL RIGHTS BELONG TO UBISOFT, ASSASSIN’S CREED, AND OTHER AFFILIATED ENTITIES. THIS IS A FAN FICTION USING COPYRIGHTED CHARACTERS AND PLOT DEVELOPMENT AND IS NOT INTENDED TO BE USED FOR PROFIT.   
  
Ick. Necessary, unfortunately. Last thing I want is to get sued; being a poor college student and all I have no money to pay for that hullabaloo. 
> 
> IMPORTANT NOTICE: For the most part this story will be rated PG-13 (or Teen if you use the video game scale) due to action violence and potentially sensitive topics. This will never include any NSFW content. HOWEVER, some chapters will be rated M because of potential trigger topics like major death of a loved one, abuse, and suicide. These M chapters will give a description of why I think they classify, so if you are triggered by any of these topics you can avoid them. There will not be many, and at the bottom of these chapters I will include an author’s note with a PG-13 quick summary of chapter content.   
  
If you read the description then you’re probably very curious. If you judged the book by its quite frankly awesome cover then you probably read the description. Bottom line, you’re curious.   
  
This is an Assassin’s Creed fanfiction that centers around the possibility that Desmond survived Dec. 21st, 2012. It incorporates information pertaining to all games, delves also into content from the books by Oliver Bowden, and takes some content from Patrice Désilets’ (the creative director of AC I, AC II, and partly AC: Brotherhood) original storyline involving Desmond before leaving Ubisoft. And also the 2016 movie.   
  
I see some people leaving. Don’t.  
  
I use the movie as a really great plot device to explain Desmond’s absence from Black Flag moving forward. In my own opinion, I actually fixed some of the things they messed up and add some background to things they overlooked. I hope to make this a plausible theory that satisfies whilst entertaining the reader. This isn’t supposed to be sad.   
  
It’s supposed to be entirely awesome. And I’m not saying the title is a big plot device, but...   
  
Vox Populi = Latin, Voice of the People
> 
> NOTE: I would like to point out before I start that there will be certain text spoken in other languages. For the sake of not wanting to have to translate all of it into its respective language and then back to English as a footnote, certain dialogue will use « and » in the place of “ and ”. These different symbols denote that a different language from the main spoken one is being used, but for the sake of author and reader sanity English will be the written form. Use your imagination ;). The Animus translates most everything, after all!

Cover Art created by Author.

Theme Music for this Fanfic is: Vox Populi by Thirty Seconds to Mars (<https://youtu.be/oGeXD2Sq_A8>) and "Born For This" by The Score (<https://youtu.be/aJ5IzGBnWAc>).

The recovery team skidded through the tunnel and came to rest at the bottom of an incredibly steep incline. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I’d heard of these Precursor Temples, but I’d never actually been inside one before. 

The very air seemed to tingle with electric discharge, and I felt the hair stand up on the back of my neck despite being safely cocooned in a biohazard suit. HQ had said that the electro-magnetic blast had originated from this location. It’s what had reset the Earth’s magnetic field, strengthening it so that Mr. Sunny Sun’s gigantic solar flare had bounced harmlessly off instead of frying the planet. Or something. Me, I was a skeptic. It wasn’t like I had good reason to be a believer. At least, not yet.

“Hey, Lucky! Need some help over here!” I groaned, but hoisted my gear pack over my shoulder and followed the sound of the voice. I had a name, obviously. And it wasn’t Lucky. But I had this... ability, shall we say. It allowed me to track objects, people... and I just _knew _certain things that other people didn’t. I would - pause for effect - get lucky. I couldn’t exactly control it, though. Yet it always happened when I needed it. This ability of mine made me nervous. I’d tried speaking of it to a medical professional provided by the company when I’d first experienced it, but their almost rabid sense of interest had shut me down from going into any great amount of detail. They’d kept an unusually close eye - for a low-level biotech that is - on me ever since then.

The cavernous space was poorly lit with a soft, almost natural blue light. Almost natural, except for the fact that it was emanating from carved channels in the surface of polished black stone (which no longer existed on the planet) that resembled a network of circuitboard wiring. The place had really seen better days, but I was no interior decorator. I was just a lab tech with a gift for finding things that didn’t want to be found. Ahead of me were Terry and Jack, standing at the edge of a long stone walkway with the rest of the equipment and peering into the endless abyss below. The other teams had arrived ahead of us and had been documenting, then stripping whatever artifacts that they found useful or interesting historically speaking. I ignored them and cruised to a stop near my other team members, ankle twisting painfully on loose chunks of rubble as I did so. 

“Hey guys,” I wheezed, eyes stinging with pain. “Where’s Li?” Terry shrugged, her suit crackling like a plastic shopping bag with the movement. 

“Inside the chamber already. Higher-ups are extremely interested in what was in there, so the excavation team dug us a path. But the chamber’s all ours. Wanna head in first?” 

“But you said I could go first!” Jack whined. Short for Jacqueline, and full of that famed Irish temper that was often just a mythological stereotype. Aside from the fact that she also had flaming red hair and bright green eyes. And that I might have had a crush on her. Badly. 

“Li wants him to go through first,” Terry countered with a frown. “Wants that ‘special gift’ of his to track down anything we might be looking for.” 

“It’s nothing special, really,” I replied a little too quickly with a wince. Jack snorted. 

“Yeah, right. You’ve found more artifacts than the entire archeological and exploratory dig teams put together.”

“Which teams?” There was an incredulous silence. 

“_All of them,_ genius.” My ears began burning and I was glad my suit obscured them from view. Li came out of the opening in the collapsed rock pile, picking her way carefully through like a cat trying not to get its feet wet. As usual, Lilia was the epitome of no-nonsense pragmatism and easy authority that kept the team on track. 

Yes, I was the only guy. And yes, that made me feel a bit weird. Not because they were gals, but because they were all tomboys and I was of what appeared to them to be the rare breed of man that actually _liked _wearing knit pullovers and a quiet afternoon with a specialty brew coffee and a rom-com to myself and my cat every now and then. I didn’t like getting my hands dirty, and my car of choice was a Prius. Jack, on the other hand, had her hair cut exceptionally short, drove an F-150 that had a lift kit, and drank coffee that resembled motor oil. It was probably half and half. 

Li gave me an appraising look. She’d been doing that a lot recently, and I was beginning to feel more than a little put off by it. 

“Hey boss,” I said uncertainly. “What’s up? You told Terry I needed-”

“There’s so much debris in there that I can’t see a thing for the stone dust,” she interrupted. “But you can find most anything, so yeah. Get in there, Charlie.” I always found it ironic that she was the only one who called me by my actual name when she was the one who also praised my ‘lucky powers of observation’ the most. 

“O-okay.” I sighed, checking the read-out on my device. It told me that it was safe for me to remove my gear. I popped off the head covering and left it at that, at once feeling cool air brush against my skin. It was dusty, yet fresh. And _cold. _Really cold. I could actually see my breath coming in little puffs of vapor as I carefully edged my way toward the opening in the rubble. 

My vision faded and darkened abruptly from normal colors and shades into a pervasive deep indigo, my coworkers a soft and non-threatening shimmering blue. Noise came to me, muted and hard to decipher. It was as if I were blocking out things that weren’t important to focus on things that were. It was like trying to hear things underwater. ...With a lot of creepy whispering when I got close to something that could potentially harm. 

Oddly, I just... knew which direction to go. I could sense it, but couldn’t explain how I did. It was as if all my senses combined to form a sixth sense - a secondary sense that was superior to my others separated on their own. 

I looked down at my shoes and abruptly moved to the side, staring intently at the treadware of three different sets headed toward the entrance. They were pulsing a faint red, fading the farther they got from my position. I knelt to get a better look at them; each footfall was spaced far from the next. Farther than my own, and I had been walking. They’d run from this place. Thinking of all the damage the the temple had sustained, I didn’t blame them. 

“What’s he doing?” Terry asked. The words were far away, echoing as if from deep within a chasm. 

“Beats me,” Li replied. 

“Footprints,” I said without any explanation whatsoever. 

“...Sorry?” I didn’t know who’d said it. I’d noticed a pair of footprints walking in, shimmering the faintest of golds. They didn’t come back out. I’d found my objective. Whatever - or, _who_ever - had made those was important for some reason, though I didn’t know why. 

We were supposed to be recovering an Apple of Eden. We found him instead. 

My vision, mostly deep indigo tones and faint sparks, suddenly exploded with gold. It was so bright it was almost white, and it wasn’t shimmering. It was _pulsing. _Like... like a heartbeat. Slow, and getting slower between each pulse, but incredibly strong if a little thready. 

“Guys!?” I yelped, stumbling and crashing into a pedestal that housed a bright blue orb on it. Despite the fact that the orb was glowing, I couldn’t have cared less about its existence. My vision was completely blinded by the brilliant gold light, so bright that I couldn’t look directly at it. It was like the sun. And yet, my ‘special vision’ was too stupid to turn itself off. So I just stood there, tiny shards of light piercing my brain; a headache the size of Texas clouding my thoughts and putting pressure on my skull. “_Guys!?_” 

“Charlie!” Li, Terry, and Jack came scurrying into the chamber - which was remarkably well intact _internally_ despite the _external_ damage to it - and probably thought I was having a stroke or something. “Hey, you okay?” 

“Mmhmm,” I mumbled, wincing at the brightness. I’d never seen anything like it before. I was slowly adjusting to it, but it was still difficult. 

“Li, take a look at this,” Jack breathed. The pair of them began fawning over the pedestal. I slowly felt my way along the floor towards the light, a high-pitched yip escaping from my lips as my hand was split open by something sharp. The unexpected pain was enough to pull me back into regular vision, and I looked down to see that my fingers were very loosely curled around a wickedly sharp blade. It was fractured off from the housing it belonged to, which was attached to a set of well-maintained leather straps snapped at the bindings. 

“Lucky?” Terry whispered quietly. I sat back onto my heels and cradled my hand against my chest with an exhale of breath, the pristine white front of my biohazard suit slowly being stained by blood as it oozed from my palm. The knife had cut through my glove like it was made of weak fabric.

“I’m gonna need a med kit,” I groaned. “Other than that I’m fine.” Terry didn’t look convinced. 

“You’re sure?”

“Yep.” She nodded, then turned her attention to the source of the golden light. Bending down on her heels she suddenly became very, _very _interested.

“Whoa. Look at his hand!” I blinked away the tears welling in the corners of my eyes and suddenly realized what she was talking about, also incredibly interested but for an entirely different reason. The body before us was positioned on the stone floor as if he’d been blasted backward from the pedestal, and judging by the substantial damage to his right hand that was probably what had happened. The damage was so bad that his skin had been burned black, with deep red lines resembling both lightning and circuitry at the exact same time. Furthermore, this was Desmond freaking Miles. The guy who’d shredded more than seven years of careful planning on the part of the Abstergo Execs in less than three months and was responsible for the death of Warren Vidic.

But what interested me most was that he was still glowing faintly with that golden pulse, and that it was brightest on the upper left side of his chest. Looking down at him I had the strangest feeling that he was the answer to my deepest questions. About... well, about my ‘gift.’ Where I’d gotten it, why I had it, what it signified about me. My friends were anxious to get started. 

“I’d usually wait until we got back to the lab to do this, but I don’t like the look of that hand,” Li stated. “Prep him for autopsy.” 

“Wait, what?” I exclaimed, startled. “You can’t.”

“Why not?” She was frowning. 

“Because he’s still alive.” 

“You’re dreaming,” Jack scoffed. “And besides, how would you even know?”

“I can sense his heartbeat,” I retorted before I’d thought it through. The moment the words were out of my mouth I regretted saying them. You could have heard a pin drop in that chamber. Or, rather, a few drops of my blood splashing onto the floor. I could feel Li’s gaze boring into the side of my head, but it never occurred to me for even a second to take my eyes off of Desmond’s pulse, a golden haze emanating from his heart. 

“Check him,” Li instructed after an uncomfortably long period of silence. She sounded like her throat was dry. Jack did so hesitantly, fingers pressed against his neck. She looked back up, startled. And a little creeped out. 

“He’s right,” she whispered. I just stood there, wishing I were somewhere else. “I don’t know how, but-”

“Prep for autopsy,” Li interrupted quickly. “Set up the camera. We’ll go through the motions. Extract blood and harmless tissue samples.” She glanced at the hand. “Should be able to get some marrow samples, with that mess. But this is important: to all intents and purposes, this man is dead. Okay? He’s got some very... _skilled _friends who won’t stop until they’ve got him back if they were to know he’d survived. When you’re done, stabilize him for transport and we’ll get him to the facility in Madrid. Get to it.” 

She grabbed my arm and inspected my hand closely. 

“Not you, Charlie. That’s going to need stitches.” She sighed, leading me out of the cavern and toward a supply station. “Come on. It’ll be over in a few moments.” 

“But I- fine. Okay.” Li whistled lightly as she peeled off what remained of my glove and sprayed the gash down with anti-bacterial spray. I winced. She arched an eyebrow and began filling a needle with a numbing agent, so that I wouldn’t feel it while she stitched me up. 

“So...” There was a long period of silence. “Eagle Vision. That’s your ‘special gift.’ I’m going to be honest, I’d hoped that you’d just be a good finder.” 

“‘Eagle Vision?’” I echoed. “What’s That?” Li didn’t look up from what she was doing. I slipped back into my - apparently _Eagle Vision_ \- unexpectedly and was surprised to see her glowing red. _Danger._

“It’s... well, it’s a gift, a sense if you will. One that only the Assassins know how to use.” She injected the needle into my arm, and I winced again. “You’re a great addition to my team, Charlie. I’m really sorry that it’s come to this.” 

“Come to what?” I was beginning to feel numb. Li began stitching up my hand. She finished her work, not saying a word. The numbness spread to other parts of my body. 

“It truly is unfortunate that you’ve got Assassins in your family tree,” she sighed. “I hate to lose good people.” 

The last thing I saw was her scarlet form in a sea of swirling indigo before I blacked out, never to be seen by my friends and family ever again.


	2. Deja Vu (Except I’ve Never Been Here Before)

The last time Desmond had been in a coma, he’d woken up to the end of the world. This time was different. He’d expected to go softly into the quiet night, not wake up in a prep school prison. Literally.

Abstergo was like the private school of correctional facilities. At least, _this_ place was. He’d been told he was somewhere in Spain, but apart from that he really had no idea where he was. Oh, and that he’d been asleep for the last three years. Three dreamless, Ancestor-free blissful utopian years. He hadn’t died in the Temple, then. That was both a relief and a source of great frustration. He’d been _ready _to die for something he believed in, and instead he was held captive by Templars once again.

Doctors Sofia and Alan Rikkin, a father and daughter team, had been working on ‘eliminating aggression’ in their subjects. People, Desmond soon realized, that all had exactly one thing in common. They were all Assassins. 

Apparently his coma _hadn’t _been a result of his interacting with the Temple. They’d medically induced it so that his body could focus on healing. And, after _five operations _and countless skin grafts, each amounting to something a CEO would probably think twice about paying, they’d managed to get his hand back to 87% of its former strength and usefulness. That was nothing to sneeze at; the pictures he’d seen made him wonder if a miracle sent by providence had done the surgery. Instead of black skin charred to the second and third layer, deep red lines of circuitry-looking lightning burns, he had a slightly tanner shade of skin on the majority of his hand. It was visually and sensually rougher than the skin on his other hand. The electrical burn pattern had scarred despite their best efforts into precise white tissue, making it look like a white-ink tattoo. It was kind of awesome looking, actually. Desmond had quickly grown fond of it. 

As for the strength in it, well. The hand was still useful, and he only got minor tremors in it occasionally. With therapy exercises it had the chance of getting into the 95% range of former operability and a total elimination of the tremors. People could say what they wanted to about Abstergo, but when it came to breakthrough innovative technology and techniques no one was better. Naturally the result of being a centuries old secret organization bent on running the world and containing some of the most brilliant minds and deepest pockets in the ranks of their order.

At any rate, they’d also put him into a partial Animus that controlled muscle function. In effect, they’d kept him moving (very slightly) by giving constant signals with the software to his brain so that his muscles didn’t atrophy completely and his brain didn’t forget how to work them. All the same, it was two weeks of being conscious before he was able to get out of the bed and five before they let him walk from it to the bathroom unaccompanied. He’d been told that it would take a few months of therapy and constant physical activity to regain full control of his muscle groupings. 

In fact, it seemed that the only thing Abstergo _hadn’t _done was to give him a proper shave and haircut. They’d given him a _trim_, sure, but nothing as short as he would have liked. Desmond had tripped over himself by backpedaling too fast when he’d first seen his reflection in the mirror. With a short beard and shoulder-length hair that he’d annoyedly tied back in a ponytail until it cut be cut off, he’d thought that Ezio had been staring back at him. 

...Except that Ezio had never been so pale and malnourished from being in a coma for a little less than three years. Dr. Sofia Rikkin, on being notified of his apparent distress, had come in to calm him. Desmond actually liked her, in a guilty sort of way. Of course, she was the enemy. She was Templar. But she was also soft-spoken and honest. There was a great shortage of people like that in the world today. Which was early September of 2015. Still getting used to that. 

Apparently there were no Hoverboards.

For the first thirteen weeks after waking up Desmond was completely isolated from the rest of the complex; it felt like being trapped in that Skyrise level in Italy all over again. Except, you know, no Lucy to tell him it was okay and no Warren Vidic staring at him three inches away from his face when he woke up in the morning with a serial killer smile. There were obviously pluses and minuses there. 

When he had got somewhat back on his feet they moved him out of critical care and into GenPop. They didn’t call it that, but they might as well have. For starters, everyone was stuck wearing the same sky blue pant and cream tee shirt set with soft, noiseless white shoes to keep up the appearance of a psych facility. They had cells they slept in. No sharing, but Desmond knew a double-sided mirror when he saw one and knew that there was absolutely no privacy in the slightest. After the time in Italy and New York, where he’d had a bathroom with a camera in it and then had been forced to sleep and dress in the same place as a few ladies and two very self-conscious guys - Shaun had screamed bloody murder when Desmond walked in on him changing, Rebecca had no shame, Lucy had blushed profusely whenever she saw him with his shirt off, which was a little too often to be coincidental, and his father had been unusually keen on not showing skin above the wrist or below the collarbone - he was used to the complete and total lack of privacy. 

The complex itself was state of the art, but Desmond was still confused at the logic which had made someone think it was even a remotely good idea to trap a bunch of Assassins in one large building and store weapons collected from their anscestors in the exact same place. Truly brilliant thinking on the part of the security team. Stellar. A+, 10/10.

But GenPop. They’d transferred him in the dead of night so as not to cause any problems. After all, if everyone was locked away to sleep then there would be no one to witness his being moved from CritCare. For some reason - a very good reason it seemed - they didn’t want everyone and their brother to know about that. Apparently having the kind of care done on you that Desmond had had wasn’t standard procedure, so it would mark him as a _very important_ person. 

Being perfectly honest with himself, Desmond was unsure why they’d gone to the time and - expensive, very expensive - trouble to get him back on his feet. It meant they needed him for something, which didn’t bode well. It wasn’t his memories anymore; they’d extracted enough biological material to create a Sample 17 Project. Subject 17 was no more. To the world, he was dead. They’d given him a new number here. He was now Subject 46. They had no listed names in their records. It made it clean and tidy when the Assassins came knocking. 

In GenPop, he would be expected to continue with his exercises and therapies to get back on his feet. That would continue until the doctors were convinced he was fully recovered. Or recovered as best as he could be, when it came to his right hand. Again, the effort they were making was astounding, and Desmond dreaded the day they would make good on whatever it was they had in mind for him. In fact, he was hoping to escape long before then. Even if they weren’t after his blood, he was still an extremely important person to be holding. His dad was the current leader of the Assassin Brotherhood, for one thing. For another, due to his genes, he was one of the few people on the planet that was capable of interacting successfully with the Pieces of Eden. And lastly... at least, in Desmond’s mind, he had a relationship of sorts going with Juno even if it was hostile. Sofia had mentioned in passing to the head of security that they were still having problems rooting her out of Abstergo’s network. She’d said it quietly, of course, but Desmond had trained with three master Assassins who all knew how to hardcore eavesdrop. 

At any rate, he was definitely more valuable to them alive than dead. And that worried him. It worried him a lot.


	3. Welcome to the (New Age Fusion) Jungle

“New blood,” someone laughed. Desmond sighed, raising his head up from where it had been dropped against the table in the food court to get a good look at the man speaking to him. And kept looking up. The guy was a bruiser, and the memory of the large guards in Italy with their hefty battle axes came to mind unbidden. “So what’re you in for?” 

“Wrong place, wrong time,” Desmond replied tiredly. He hurt all over. The therapy exercises had recently gotten more and more rigorous as he’d made progress. It was also his first day going through the GenPop routine. He thought a moment. “And by new blood, you mean...” 

“New kid on the block. New face. They put you through the ringer yet?” 

“Oh, yeah. Loads.” It was a dry chuckle, followed by a groan as Desmond slowly lowered his head onto the table again. He’d thought about making a comment on his actually being old blood in regards to Abstergo, but the fact of the matter was that if they knew he’d been transferred from CritCare he’d be dead within the week. And frankly, Desmond wanted to know what the Templars were up to. Not to mention that he actually _liked _the feeling of not having a blunt cafeteria knife shoved through his ribcage and into something vital. His short ponytail brushed against the back of his neck, tickling the sensitive skin. He flicked it away with a sigh. 

“Can I get you anything?” An orderly asked mildly. 

“Shave and a haircut?” Desmond asked pointedly, rapping his knuckles on the table to finish out the tune. _Two bits._

“I’m not sure I- I’ll see what I can arrange,” the man stuttered congenially. He left, the first person chuckling approvingly. 

“Name’s Luke,” he said, offering a hand. “But most people call me Forester. That was my Assassin ancestor, Michel Foréster. You know, the one that landed me a spot at the Templar Shangri La?” Desmond nodded, accepting the handshake. Forester’s gaze settled with keen interest on his right hand before politely flicking back up to his face. 

“Desmond. As for which ancestor... take your pick. Got a lot of peaked hoods in my genetic closet.” There was a nod. 

“Well, I’ve got a schedule if you can believe it,” Forester said. “I’d recommend you ask around for Moussa. Or Bapiste. Same person. He goes by either, which I feel is remarkably tolerant of him.”

“Baptiste was his ancestor?” Desmond ventured tentatively. Forester nodded. 

“See? You’re catching on. Our lives... everything is so different here. It doesn’t feel like we’re us anymore. So a lot of us tend to use the names of our ancestors instead. Because a new life, a new you... look, when you’ve been in the Animus enough times you’ll be the same way. Trust me on that one.” 

Desmond arched a skeptical eyebrow and crossed his arms. He preferred to be himself, thank you very much. He’d _been _Altaïr. Ezio. Connor. And a New York City Bartender who’d run away from South Dakota, whose life had been turned upside down by the very fight he’d tried to escape? _That _was the guy that Minerva and Jupiter had chosen. That guy suited him just fine. 

Plus, they didn’t have penicillin back in Ye Olden Days. Or ibuprofen. Dark time. 

The orderly from earlier came back, a smile on his face. It seemed to be permanently plastered there. 

“If you’ll follow me, we can do something about your hair.” 

“Povero bambino estivo ingenuo. Grazie.” The orderly blinked, opened his mouth to say something, and then obviously thought better of it. It was clear he hadn’t understood what was said. 

“I- welcome. Just follow me, please.” Desmond arched a mischievous eyebrow at Forester, who, having had a French ancestor, most likely had understood a small part of all that. The smirk agreed with the assessment. Desmond followed the orderly out into a hallway, past several open doors, and to a section that had a reinforced security lock. It made sense. If you had an area with scissors and razors you’d want to make sure the natives didn’t get restless. 

A quick thumbprint scan and they were in. The place looked more like an examination room than a salon, but the table was filled with hair care products instead of swabs and gloves. So that boded well in the scheme of things.

“Any particular style?” The woman looked as if she’d rather be doing something else. She probably got paid more at her regular job anyway. 

“Very short, with a bit left slightly longer and tufty in the bangs. No facial.” Desmond cracked a forced smile. “I’m sure you’ve got pictures from before my coma experience to go on.” She frowned, then motioned for the orderly to look something up on the computer situated on the table at the back of the room. Sure enough, there were a few pictures taken at different angles. She gestured to them. 

“Are these it?” Desmond got into the seat and leaned back, pretending to be interested by the ceiling.

“Grand Theft Auto me.” The orderly snorted with suppressed laughter, and Desmond got the feeling he’d be simultaneously their greatest source of entertainment and unnecessary issues. He could live with that.

-/\\-

They’d taken maybe twenty to twenty-five minutes to cut his hair, and another six to shave off his beard. It was probably the most efficient haircut he’d ever gotten, as well as the tidiest. He had a sneaking suspicion that his stylist spent her days utlilizing her razor and shear skills for... _other_ purposes that he didn’t want to know about in the slightest. She was a scary woman. Being put in a position where you had to trust her entirely not to slit your throat or mess up your Look™️ was a dark and risky place to be. 

“So? What do you think?” She asked impatiently, foot tapping slightly on the tile floor. Desmond leaned forward to get closer to the mirror and nodded approvingly. He was looking like his old self again. What intrigued him was that his old self was the spitting image of Altaïr as he had been at Desmond’s age. He’d never come to that conclusion before, and it kind of scared him. 

“It’s perfect.” There was a look of accomplishment on her otherwise impassive face. The orderly pushed himself up off the wall and the two of them left her be as they made their way back to the part of the complex where Desmond was allowed to have a semi-free run of the place with the other Subjects. The door quickly hissed shut with a beeping chirp as the lock secured behind them. 

“Thanks,” Desmond murmured distractedly. He was scanning for one person in particular. The orderly nodded and then disappeared into the throng of people. 

A quick, pointed blink made the world dissolve into a thick misty haze of indigo. There were trails of red footprints all about the place from the guards and orderlies, and there were the non-threatening blue of the other inmates. A disturbing revelation was the absence of white; no place to hide and no useful informants. The red haze in certain areas alerted him to the range of vision the cameras had, which was wide and almost seamless from one camera to the next. Purposefully, Desmond began walking in the narrow cracks in between just to see if it were possible. 

His hair prickled on the back of his neck and he froze. One of the cameras swept by not two inches in front of him. EV was more handy than he’d realized. When it swiveled back the way it had come he moved on again, finally reaching a corner where there was a blind spot directly beneath the surveillance equipment. He paused there, a feeling of immense satisfaction rushing through him when he saw his footprints in white tracing his path through unseen territory. He’d been successful. 

Desmond crouched in place and then folded his legs cross-wise underneath him, leaning back until his shoulders gently tapped the two walls in the corner. In a restful position, he nonchalantly began scanning the room in EV for any sign of Moussa/Baptiste. A few minutes - maybe half an hour - later, a man walked into the commons area and lit up in bright gold. _Target acquired._ Said target was looking for something himself, gaze slowly finding Desmond in the crowd. There was a short, quiet laugh that sounded clear and crisp to Desmond; his Eagle Vision did much more than alter his sight. _Every _sense became hyper-aware, increased and focused on what was important and ignored what was not. Moussa began walking toward him, following the exact same path he had taken shortly before. 

Moussa came to the Place of the Unseen and sat as well, leaning his back against the wall and sticking his legs out straight in front of him just within the boundaries of the blind spot. 

“Thank you,” he murmured quietly without preamble. Desmond flicked off the EV, Moussa still shimmering a vague gold as if he’d been coated in Pixie Dust. _Now all I need is a little faith and trust, and we can fly out of here... _

“ ...For what?” Desmond asked tentatively. Moussa looked directly into his eyes and smiled. It was a sad sort of smile; the man was in his late forties at least and his mid-fifties at most, his dark skin wrinkled about the eyes and mouth into laughter lines from a life that had given him some great joy. His beard was short and richly silver, though the part covering his upper lip was still a lightening black. He’d seen a lot and done a lot. Desmond was reminded of Achilles because of that same sense of sad fulfillment a lengthy life had brought. 

“Thank you for preventing the world from burning,” Moussa replied. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Language Translations  
Povero bambino estivo ingenuo - poor naive summer child  
Grazie - thanks


	4. I’ve Got a Bad Feeling (About This) ft. Indy Jones

“I’m sorry?” Desmond stuttered. Moussa chuckled. 

“I know _exactly _who you are, Desmond Miles. I also know that you’re supposed to have died a little over three years ago.” His soft gaze hardened and darkened. “But what I’m curious to have explained to me is why you’ve suddenly resurfaced here, of all places, and very much alive.” He grasped Desmond’s right hand unexpectedly and began inspecting it closely. Desmond tensed, unsure what it was he was supposed to do. Instinct - or perhaps memory - was screaming ‘stab him and hide the body’ but intuition was telling him the man wasn’t a threat. 

...Yet. And ever since he’d figured out how to use Eagle Vision his intuition was equally as accurate as the EV was. So he decided to trust it. For now. 

Moussa thankfully let go of his arm, but despite that he stayed tensed. 

“An interesting scar pattern, don’t you think?” Desmond drew his hand in closer to his torso protectively, fully aware that it didn’t work as well as it used to and never would. His _left _hand though, that still worked just fine and he placed it in front of the bad one. The message was clear: _back off buddy. _Moussa nodded, shifting a little farther away. Desmond relaxed slightly.

“So what do I call you?”

“Moussa’s fine. Many call me Baptiste here, but... well, Baptiste specialized in poisons in the Louisiana Bayou. And he was a traitor. Templar conversion. So I don’t really appreciate the reminder of the blot in my family tree.” 

“He was killed by Aveline de Grandpre,” Desmond commented quietly, carefully. He had a foggy recollection of receiving word that Baptiste had been killed, another target on the recently-international Assassin hit list to be crossed off. Aveline was good at what she did. Connor had had great admiration for her skills as a sister of the Brotherhood. 

“You have an ancestor who was... alive during that time?” He asked. 

“Mm. Connor Kenway. His dad, Haytham, was Templar Grand Master of the Colonial Rite. So I get not wanting to be reminded of them.” 

“The Kenways?” Moussa betrayed his interest. “That’s a prestigious lineage.” Desmond let out a short chuckle. 

“Small fish in my genealogy Koi pond.”

“I’d heard rumors.” He sighed, resting the back of his head against the wall and closing his eyes. “I should warn you so that you’re not caught unbalanced. More of our people are catching on. And we _all _know who you are and what you did. That kind of thing doesn’t go unnoticed, even in a place like this. Let the rest of the world forget. We know.”

“So what does that mean for me?” Desmond asked uneasily. Moussa opened his eyes again, looking straight at him. 

“Watch yourself. There are some who are so desperate to disrupt the Templars’ plans that they’ll go to any length. You were saved and brought back to health for a reason, my friend. And whatever it is, Abstergo isn’t planning on it being beneficial to the Assassins.”

“What can you tell me about the Animus Program around here?” 

“Ah. You can’t resist it, for one thing. If you try it destroys your senses. I’m the man in charge around here simply because I’m Subject 7. Subjects 1-6 are currently in varying states of Dementia. So I’ve survived longest and that makes me the leader somehow.” There was a calculated look. “I have a feeling that I’ll soon be second in command now that you’re here.” 

“Why’s that?” Desmond asked with a blink or two, startled. He wasn’t happy with where the conversation was heading. Moussa was amused now. 

“If what they say about your heritage is true, and what you went through before getting here... well. Then I don’t really have a platform to stand on, do I?” With that he stood, smiling slightly before weaving back through the camera paths and purposefully entering their line of sight far away from the corner. Desmond stayed put for a little while, mulling over both bits of information. 

He wasn’t sure which one worried him more; the fact that there were people plotting to kill him (which he’d slowly become accustomed to already) or that the remaining ones were looking at him as some sort of Second Coming (which he doubted he’d _ever _get used to). 

Easing up off the wall, he decided it would be a good idea to explore the facility a little bit. Clear his head, find some good hiding spots in case someone decided to make good on the promise to shank him. 

There was a door set into an ageing stone wall, made of old heavy oak and set with newly-replaced period iron hinges. Next to it was a palm-scanner, the rock chipped and sliced slightly about the edges where they’d hacked in a hole. Desmond didn’t need EV to know that they’d attached it to the door handles and lock. And yet... 

And yet he decided to try anyway, using a bent bobby pin he’d managed to snag from the hair stylist while she and the orderly were distracted. He hadn’t needed a haircut all that bad, really. There was the unmistakable sound of a click, and with bated breath he turned the handle. It opened on well-greased hinges, and the effort it took to push open the heavy wood had him panting by the time he was done. Dear God, he was glad his therapy sessions were continually improving his muscle functionality. He closed it just as noiselessly behind him and leaned against it, waiting to get his breath back. 

Desmond found himself in an old fortress-like corridor, with disused torches lining the stone pillars and only good for decoration now. He decided to try and light one anyway. Sticking the bobby pin in his teeth he chewed the plastic covering off the ends, then ran them quickly across one of the columns. There was a spark, and it lit the cloth wad on the end of the torch. Naturally, in typical Abstergo fashion, they were so concerned about being authentic that they _were _authentic. Fortunate for him, and unfortunate for them. He discovered that this building felt... familiar. Like something Ezio would have walked through back in Renaissance days. Suffice it to say, he was comfortable in his newest (oldest?) environment. What was more, it was easy to figure out what was up ahead just by looking at where he was. 

And that included secret passages. Using EV, Desmond easily found the near-invisible switch to open one. He slipped inside and trod noiselessly through the tunnel, a feat in and of itself simply because the tight stone confines managed to pick up even the slightest sound and project it down the space. Every once in a while he’d pass by a sliver of a metal grate, providing just enough ventilation to bring him air.

The passage opened into a junction, with several other tunnels splitting off and going their separate ways. Desmond decided to end his search for the day and come back once he knew the layout of the complex; without knowing where the passages ended up they were pretty much useless to him for sneaking purposes. Once he figured out what was going on in this place he was out, and not a moment before. He’d find a way to get back to Rebecca and Shaun and... And his dad. Somehow. 

On his way back to the approved area for movement, Desmond paused and sighed, leaning against a cool sand-colored slab of rock wall. He’d spent so much of his life running from the Assassins, only to find that he felt he truly belonged there and then become separated from them all within the span of a few months (and some time in an unconscious coma or two). 

He’d also made his first three actual friends when he’d returned to the Assassins. During training, the other kids had disliked him because he was ‘a Miles’ and they felt he got special treatment. They were right. He did. He was pushed harder and given less slack than the others because _‘I can’t play favorites, son.’ _As a bartender at Bad Weather in New York he was afraid to open up about his past to his coworkers, and he never went anywhere exciting that could get him found. He’d been more worried about the Assassins finding him than the Templars, who up until his abduction he’d seen as nothing more than a scary bedtime story. So he’d had some people he liked to hang out with after hours while they closed up, but no one close. And then...

Then there was Lucy. Even at Abstergo she had been kind and sympathetic of what he was going through. She knew exactly who he was, she’d looked out for his well-being, and answered his questions when he was able to fully understand what those answers implied. She’d helped him escape Abstergo when she could have just as easily killed him to prevent the Templars from exploiting his ancestor’s memories, and had brought him back to his Assassin roots. Lucy hadn’t made him stay, though. She’d been willing to give him a choice with some heavily biased encouraging on her part. Even though she’d been a Templar Agent, Desmond still felt an immense pang of guilt whenever he thought of that night under the Colosseum. He’d never been able to ask her why she’d converted, and could only guess in retrospect.

Lucy had also introduced him to Rebecca and Shaun. He and Rebecca had hit it off almost immediately; she was spunky and good-natured with a strong code of ethics and deep moral principles. She’d loved anything to do with technology and had done her best to make the Animus as safe and easy to use as possible, which was actually a lot harder than it sounded. Basically, Rebecca was the little sister Desmond had always wanted and they got along like a house afire. 

Shaun was... to be honest with himself Desmond had to admit that, if he hadn’t just been through Altaïr’s memories and experienced Malik before making his acquaintance, the two of them probably would have tried to murder each other within the first week of meeting. Now, it was hard to explain. But he could in a way feel how his ancestors felt. And Altaïr had been inordinately fond of Malik. He’d always tried to impress the man, even as children, but had only succeeded in catching the admiration of Kadar instead (a friendship that Desmond had trouble teasing the true emotions out of because the sense of guilt was so overwhelming it drowned everything else). Later in Altaïr’s life, Malik had felt the same way Leonardo did to Ezio. So when Desmond and Shaun met, he had been reminded so strongly of Malik that he’d simultaneously wanted to befriend the man and punch his lights out. 

Needless to say Desmond grew to appreciate Shaun far more quickly than Shaun had Desmond. Shaun had a habit of only meaning 20% of the things he said and only saying 5% of the things he actually thought. His sarcasm had a saltiness level rivaling that of a saline mine, and it was his defense mechanism against things he found hard to deal with. Which was pretty much everything. For such a crotchety person he was actually very sensitive. Once Desmond had figured that out, they enjoyed each other’s company because Shaun liked having someone about who: 1) put up with him and knew when he was hurting and 2) had a unique insight into history. 

And he missed them. He missed them so much it actually made his chest ache. And they thought he was dead. Desmond had been lonely for his entire life, but this was a loneliness born of not being able to be with the people he cared about. It hurt more than having no one ever could. 

“Thought I saw someone come in here.” Desmond held his breath, wishing now that he’d not taken the torch. If he put it out, the smoke would bring them right to him. So he held it as far away as possible and hoped that they weren’t paying too much attention to the faint aroma of campfire that would be reaching their noses. 

“You’re dreaming,” a new voice said. “Look, the palm scanner’s working. Door was locked until we got here.”

“Still...” 

“McGowan, look. People don’t just walk through a locked door.” 

“You haven’t been here long, have you?” 

“No, but-”

“Never underestimate Assassins, Jaylithe. There’s a reason they’ve survived as long as they have, going up against a group as strong as-” There was a long pause. 

“As... what? Abstergo?”

“No, the Templars. I know you’re new, but come on. They told me you were Knight potential when you transferred.” McGowan - Desmond assumed it was McGowan - sighed. “I don’t understand why the Rikkins keep this place in its original condition. Why preserve an Assassin stronghold when they can tear it down? Erase those people from history and leave the past in the past.” 

“I take it you don’t approve of the Animus program, then.” There was a contemptuous snort of suppressed laughter, then the receding of footsteps. The oaken door opened and closed with a heavy bang, and Desmond let out a long, relieved sigh. He immediately doused the torch and stuck it back in its holding on one of the corridor columns. It would be awhile before he dared set foot in the main hallway, but one thing was for sure: if this was once an Assassin stronghold, then there would be a hidden armory and supplies. Hidden blades and cloaks among them.


	5. I Am The Night

“Mavis,” Desmond grunted unhappily as his therapist walked into his room. They were allowed to do that, he’d found. Just walk in. No knocking required. She stopped, confused. Slowly she scanned the room looking for him but finding nothing until she slowly tilted her head upward. Desmond could actually see her pupils widening in surprise from his vantage point, which happened to be on the ceiling. He was sitting upside down like a human bat in a corner right next to the door with his knees and feet braced in a particular way, muscles straining as he did crunches. Everything hurt, but he’d wanted to make a point. Mavis watched him pull himself up with his abdomen muscles alone - the tension in his legs keeping him off the ground - then relax. Pull up, relax. Pull up, relax. Yeah. She’d gotten the message all right. 

“I see you’re feeling much better,” she replied crisply in an unusually clear Scottish accent. Desmond shrugged on a release before crossing his arms over his chest for the pull, sweat beading on his forehead and every muscle in his body screaming with the effort.

“Not quite there yet but on my way.” 

“I came here to tell you that our session schedule is changing. We’re moving from seven days a week to five days a week. Eventually we’ll cut it down to three, and then to one for the hand.” 

“I’ll miss our talks.” There was a heavy sigh. 

“Get down from there,” Mavis snapped. Desmond smirked, then pulled up and flipped forward legs first on the release to land neatly in a frog crouch on the floor. He stared up at her and blinked innocently. 

“Yes ma’am. Any reason why we have to part company so soon?” 

“Doctor Rikkin wants you in the Animus starting today.” It knocked the wind out of his sails a little bit as he stood up and smoothed out his pants; the cuffs had slid down his calves and bunched half up his lower leg whilst braced in the corner. 

“Oh. Great. See you tomorrow then.” Mavis nodded, gaze traveling with the professional interest of a physical therapist over his bare chest while he scrunched his toes on the cool floor awkwardly, waiting for her to leave. 

“Nice muscle tone,” she said approvingly. “Keep it up and we can part company much sooner than expected.” 

“Ah, you’re breaking my heart,” Desmond mocked. She raised a provocative finger on her way out. 

-/\\-

“You are, of course, aware of the function of an Animus?” Sofia Rikkin asked in that soft voice of hers as Desmond was ushered into a large circular room with a bunch of foreign machinery in the center. Memories flashed, unbidden but surprisingly gentle, layering ghostly images across his regular field of view in EV. _Bleeding Effect._ The most he did was blink.

“This used to be the Hall where Assassins would gather for induction ceremonies,” Desmond replied, ignoring the question as he watched a shimmering and translucent Ezio glide across the room, blue men and women giving him a respectful and almost reverent distance. 

“I’ve been here before. Through Ezio Auditore.” He had the satisfaction of seeing Sofia swallow nervously in the corner of his eye. He wasn’t taking his gaze off the monstrosity of machinery currently desecrating the room and what it stood for, aware that his stance was tensed and threatening. He was slowly getting angrier and angrier when he realized that they’d probably moved in to Masyaf and Monteriggioni by now and made themselves at home there too. 

“You’ve seen this with the Bleeding Effect?” Sofia asked carefully. Desmond nodded. “I can help you control the visions so that they don’t co-”

“I’ve got a system worked out already, thanks. I didn’t need Abstergo to show me how to do it either. Not that they would have. Vidic wasn’t very friendly.” There was a long silence. 

“ ...Right. Desmond, we’re going to run a tolerance test before we begin. To see how able you are to participate in this project.” She gestured to a set of equipment stationed beside her left arm. 

“It’s high,” Desmond informed her coolly as he held out his arm for a blood test and let them put the sensors on over his head. “It’s extremely high.” There was a tight smile returned to him.

“It’s procedure.” 

“Of course it is.” 

They were interrupted from an intense staring contest by a rapid chirping noise from a nearby computer, and Sofia went to look with mild interest at the results. She ended up with her nose scant centimeters from the screen and an incredulous expression on her face. 

“Impressed yet?” Desmond asked pointedly. Sofia’s eyes shot up just above the screen, her eyebrows narrowed in annoyance but the dilation in her pupils betraying her suppressed excitement. 

“I- I’ve never seen results this high before,” she answered truthfully. 

“That’s what happens when you go comatose and have to knit your life back together by syncing with your forefathers,” Desmond muttered darkly. He was determined to give them a hard time as best he could, but was wondering how he would go about doing it. Each possibility was met by the reality of the incredibly violent BE the new Animus had if you didn’t sync with your ancestor correctly. If it were possible, her pupils dilated further. 

“You... you were able to come back from a Bleeding Effect-induced coma with your mind fully intact?” She rasped. Her throat sounded suddenly dry. There was a noticeable silence in the chamber; people had paused in their work routine to stare at him. Desmond shrugged, and gave a tight-lipped smile.

“Like I said. I don’t need your help dealing with my Animus PTSD.” 

“We’re going to put you into the memories of an ancestor you’re already familiar with.” Sofia changed the subject with an abrupt intake of breath as she came out from behind the computer, her gaze lingering hungrily on the test results before they went out of view. 

“As you’re used to the older Animus versions this will allow you to adapt more... comfortably. At the very least, you will be able to compare how each runs and understand why this one is different. Since I took over Dr. Vidic’s studies a little over three years ago, I like to feel that I’ve made some... improvements to his work.” 

“Take off your shirt and shoes,” an orderly stated promptly as a team of technicians began readying the machine. Desmond sighed heavily but did as he was told, the cold air whispering across bare skin and seeping up through his toes from the stone floor. 

“Do I have a choice in which ancestor I sync with?” He asked. Another lull in the activity about him.

“You’ve synced with more than one ancestor?” Sofia choked. Desmond met her gaze with a deadpan expression.

“Four,” he stated promptly. “The Assassins have their own version of the Animus, too. I didn’t just experience it at Abstergo. But if you don’t mind I’d prefer going back to Ezio Auditore, going fully through the memories he has of this place in particular? It’s like an itch I can’t reach and it’s driving me nuts.” 

“I- yes. Yes, we can do that. Just... just step into the center of the room for me please, while I confer with my technicians.” Desmond nodded, eyeing the Animus with distaste as one orderly put a suspicious-looking belt around his waist and another put a hidden blade on each arm. Both of them, he suddenly realized, were his. They’d repaired the broken one and salvaged the one he’d gotten when they’d had to leave the warehouse; the full left gauntlet that had belonged to Ezio which Lucy had managed to get from the storage center dealing with Subject 16 when the two of them had made their escape. It had been badly preserved, so he had been given a new one as soon as possible. It looked like Abstergo had recovered and restored it from where it had been rightfully laid to rest in Monteriggioni. 

He flexed his shoulder and wrist muscles simultaneously a few times to see how well the blades had been looked after, disappointed to see they weren’t as religious about it as he was. It took the second attempt on the left blade for the catch to release, and the fifth attempt with the right blade due to his bad muscle function. 

“I need to clean and oil these before we start,” he muttered pointedly while fiddling with one of the straps. The orderly had made it too loose. “And I know how to put them on myself, thank you very much.”

“Fine, do that.” Sofia has barely turned her head away from her deep conversation with the Animus software crew. So Desmond wandered over to a room filled with lethal artifacts, picked up the necessary tools, and got to work. He sharpened them first, then went over the mechanics. The Ezio gauntlet was heavy, something he’d not appreciated when initially wearing it and didn’t appreciate now. Nevertheless, he began to oil both blades and work it into the leather to keep it soft and pliable. 

“These need to be cleaned, oiled, and sharpened _constantly,” _he snapped irritably as he shimmied his left blade on with some difficulty. An orderly, one who had been about to help him put it on because he was having trouble, slowly backed away when he secured it and tested the suspension. The blade ejected with a soft _snikt _noise that made everyone around him clear a ten foot perimeter. Desmond had come to the -correct - conclusion very early on that they had had next to no experience in dealing with full-fledged Assassins in their prime in this place, and he’d been a bit liberal in showing them that he knew it. The only people who weren’t afraid of him were the Rikkins and McGowan, the security advisor. But even Sofia was watching him warily; McGowan’s eyes tracked every little movement he made.

“It needs to be done _every day_,” Desmond stressed as he put the right blade on with far less trouble. “The mechanics are a mess. These would fail to eject on a 50/50 basis in their current condition.” He tested out the blade, which took two tries due to his bad muscles. It slipped out of its holding with a rusty scraping noise, which only served to further prove his point.

“Noted.” Sofia sounded tired. “Just get in the machine.” Desmond suppressed a smirk and pulled the blade back into the housing, humming the _Twilight Zone _theme slightly as he sauntered back toward the technicians. 


	6. Distant Relations

_ Granada, Andalucia, Spain 1509 _

_«I would never have expected- what I mean to say is- I- Why are you here, Mentor? I mean, naturally you will always be welcome, but... what has brought you to Spain, and at such a time as this?» _

_«Messere Columbus,» Ezio replied tiredly. He was having excessive trouble following the Spanish language, and had had a rather long journey from Rome. His thoughts were straying more and more frequently to his father’s letter about the library in Masyaf, and he’d rather wished he were already on his way there. _

_But first things first. _

_«We are pleased that you could join us all the same, even if the circumstances are not ideal,» the skittish young man continued. Ezio, used to dealing with Leonardo when the man was excited about one of his experiments, had learned long ago how to tune out things he either did not understand or would not find interesting but respond at the appropriate times in the correct manner. He was grateful for that expertise now. _

_The man - barely more than a boy - rambled as they walked through the Brotherhood’s stronghold. Ezio has been there before, far earlier in 1492 to prevent an assassination, and not much had changed. Shadowed hallways made of chipping sand-colored stone were occasionally illumined by shafts of weak sunshine, the dust dancing as sparks in the beams through musty hot air. Many novices and masters alike paused to watch them pass by, whispers trailing after them like vapors after passing through mist. Many gave them a respectful distance, while others came in close enough for Ezio to register the curiosity in their wide eyes and reverent expressions. His name was spoken countless times. _

_«Tadeo, enough.» His guide abruptly stopped talking, and Ezio glanced up from the mildly interesting scuff pattern on the tip of his right boot to meet the gaze of a man in his mid to late forties. His eyes were a sharp, intelligent blue, and there was the hint of silver beginning to glimmer in a well-trimmed sandy brown beard. _

_«Master,» Tadeo murmured and withdrew. The newcomer - the Chapter Leader - turned to his guest with an apologetic expression. _

_«He seems... eager,» Ezio commented carefully. A slightly amused smile. _

_«My younger brother’s son. I have raised him as my own since the boy was seven after his passing with my daughter.» There was an audible inhale of breath. «But enough of that. May I enquire as to what brings you here, Mentor Auditore?»_

_«Ezio, please, Messere...?»_

_«Nerha. Aguilar de Nerha.»_

-/\\-

Desmond had been in an Animus before, but this was... something new. The machine had him fully immersed, and he was dimly aware of the world unfolding around him in holographic form for the benefit of the other people in the room. He was walking through the halls, and he was doing the speaking. His and Ezio's voices blended together as one, speaking broken Spanish heavily inflected with Italian. He was actually moving, actually speaking. For all intents and purposes, he _was _Ezio. And Ezio was him. 

_Rebecca would have a field day with this. _

The edges of the memory began to... well, _contract _was the only word Desmond could think of to call it. It was like cellophane had been superheated, melting and curling at the edges. Silver sparks were appearing and disappearing in his field of vision, and the words Aguilar was saying were buffering in broken pieces. Finally the memory shorted out altogether, silver threads of computer coding falling like rain from the ceiling and washing out the visual until Desmond was left standing back in the modern era with Sofia Rikkin and a team of engineers trying desperately to figure out what was going on. That wasn’t exactly the way Desmond preferred things to go when they were messing with his brain. 

Soft, light laughter echoed throughout the room and Desmond froze in surprise. _Couldn’t be. Could it?_

The heavily transparent and shimmering silvery form of a person was weaving in and out of the pillars, the laughter following their path. Finally, he meandered to a halt in front of Desmond with the biggest, cheekiest grin on his familiar face. 

“Miss me, cuz?” He asked, voice echoing slightly as if he were in another room. 

“Clay!?” 

“This... apparition is generating from a set of rogue memory sequences that don’t belong to your genetic structure,” Sofia informed him with a great deal of worried confusion. “The memories exist in your brain, not in your blood. Could you tell us where you got them?” 

“They belong to Clay Kaczmarek, or Subject 16,” Desmond replied with an incredulous laugh. He was staring at Clay. 

_You- did you _hack _my memories!? _He thought. 

_Oh, you mean when I grabbed you and transferred my essence to you so that no one would forget my story while letting the Animus delete me so it wouldn’t nab you instead? _There were no words spoken, but Desmond heard him clearly in his mind. 

_Clay..._

_Maybe. _

_Great. So now I’m schizophrenic._

_Relax, compadre. It’s not like I’ll be able to chat with you outside of the Animus or anything. _He shrugged his shoulders. _It’s all memory. That’s all I am anymore. Memory. And a nasty little bit of coding embedded within them that allows me to hack into any Animus network you hook up to. Memories that _you _can access as if they were your ancestor’s. _

Desmond suddenly had a thought. 

_Does that mean I get your skills with computer engineering? _The slightest of smirks as Clay brushed the side of his nose with his index finger.

_Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. _

“Why can’t we get rid of these memories!?” Sofia snapped. Clay waggled his eyebrows mischieviously at Desmond before folding his arms and standing by his side; they watched the technicians and the good doctor become increasingly more frustrated with mounting amusement. 

“They’re tied to other natural segments,” a woman protested. “To remove them we’d have to remove the anchor points, and that would cause severe psychological trauma.” Sofia sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of her nose and muttering various swear words under her breath. 

“You really do have a way with people,” Desmond sighed good-naturedly. Clay snorted with laughter. Rikkin leveled them with a piercing stare that made even Clay, dead and little more than a highly intelligent computer program at this point, whither underneath it. 

“Desmond, perhaps _you _can get rid of him?” She asked pointedly. Desmond glanced from her to Clay and back again.

“Why? I kinda missed having him around.” Sofia cracked her knuckles in irritation, a habit that Desmond figured she didn’t often indulge in. After getting over the initial shock of discovering Clay had transferred his memories _permanently _into his brain, he was kind of enjoying his presence. Mostly because he seemed to annoy the crap out of the Abstergo employees in the immediate vicinity, but also because he was familiar. Desmond _knew _him, and people like that were in incredibly short supply at the moment. Literally he was the only person he trusted, and he was a holographic reproduction being generated from a set of memories in Desmond’s own head. Life was pathetically sad at the moment. 

“We’re done today,” Sofia muttered abruptly. Two orderlies immediately came forward to help him out of the belt and weird spine harness thing that they’d attached to his back. That had really, _really _hurt when they’d put that on. With a pang of sadness he let them pull off his hidden blades; he hadn’t expected them to let him keep them, but they _belonged _there all the same. 

“Just... take good care of them,” Desmond murmured as he watched them be taken back to the adjoining room. “They’re in terrible condition.” 

“That’s my cue to leave,” Clay sighed as they finally succeeded in removing the belt. His form shimmered like a mirage for a few moments and then dissolved into nothingness. 

“Thought he’d never leave,” one of the techs muttered. 

“Don’t be rude about my extremely distant and deceased cousin,” Desmond snapped irritably. The tech seemed to wilt in submission, which was a response he wasn’t particularly used to receiving from people. He caught his reflection in a pane of glass and realized that he had squared his shoulders, throwing back his head slightly and tilting his chin up. With his shirt still off his muscle tone was easily noticeable; subtle but highly developed enough to be obvious that he had a workout regimen. Plus, he had street cred from taking out Cross and Vidic. 

“You people fried his brain with the Animus,” Desmond continued more quietly. “He’s dead because of you.” 

“This session is over Mr. Miles,” Sofia murmured. She didn’t meet his steady golden gaze, and Desmond left without another word. Sliding his shirt on as he went and carrying his shoes by way of fingers hooked in the heels, he left. 

“So? How’d it go?” Moussa asked quietly, stepping unexpectedly out of the shadows from behind a pillar. Desmond felt a shiver go down his spine but managed to suppress the impulse to leap ten feet in the air like a startled cat. 

“Fine,” he replied neutrally, pausing to slip his shoes back on. “Why do you ask?” Moussa shrugged good-naturedly.

“The first session in the Animus is often the hardest,” he explained. His gaze traveled with mild scrutiny over Desmond’s body to settle in for a diagnostic on his face. “You don’t seem any worse for wear. Good. I will warn you though; the Bleeding Effect is often violent before settling in to a pattern.”

“What about if you’ve already experienced the Bleeding Effect?” Desmond asked as he straightened back up. The pair of them began walking aimlessly toward the general direction of the commons area. 

“I’m not sure. Let me know how it goes.” 

“Thanks.” The sarcasm was worthy of Haytham’s approval. “Big help.” Moussa leveled him with a serious stare. 

“I mean it. I’m concerned with how you’ll react. As far as I know, no one has come to this version from the previous ones before it. There could be... unforeseen complications.” Desmond blinked. He hadn’t actually realized that Moussa legitimately cared for his welfare. 

“I will. Promise.” 

“Good luck.” They parted ways in the hall; Moussa to get some food and Desmond to get some sleep.


	7. Everybody's Got A Routine

It was a rude awakening at 3:15 in the morning for Desmond when Sofia Rikkin stepped into his room with a sophisticated-looking high-tech case and a thin smile that did nothing to mask her unease. Desmond, who had become a light sleeper overnight after being kidnapped, shot up from the bed and crouched at the end of it ready to defend himself with every muscle tensed and coiled like a spring. Sofia froze in the doorway, the shadows of the two security guards out in the hall pooling in the square of light on the floor. She swallowed nervously as he continued to stare balefully up at her, just waiting for her to give him the opportunity to strike in self-defense. Sofia was seeing Connor for the first time too; ever since his village had been burned the man had had problems trusting strangers and that had transferred into Desmond via BE as a prevailing sense of general unease. 

“Trouble sleeping?” She asked in a non-threatening manner. She still hadn’t moved an inch since setting foot in his doorway. 

“Yeah, and for good reason.” 

“I’m not here to hurt you, Desmond.” She indicated the case with a slight calculated and non-threatening gesture. “Quite the opposite in fact.” 

“... Go on.” Sofia nodded toward the bed. 

“May I?” 

“I’d say ‘free country’ but that might insult you people.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Sofia gently set the case on the bed next to Desmond, who remained ready to fight but compromised by going from a crouch to sitting cross-legged. “Lights.” 

They both winced as the incandescent bulbs flickered on. 

“I need your thumbprint.” Desmond arched a quizzical eyebrow but let her cautiously grasp his hand, whereupon she first scanned her own print on a pad attached to the side of the case, input a number code, and then let it scan his. The case beeped, the touch screen flashed green, and then the case opened. 

“What...?” Inside, set on stands, were his hidden blades. On the sides and underneath the stands were the necessary tools he would need to properly maintain them, and - for Ezio’s blade at least - there were also the interchangeable attachments. Sofia flashed a smug smile, happy for once to have him unbalanced instead of it being her. 

“After the chastising you gave my staff yesterday we came to the conclusion that it would be best if you were allowed to keep them in prime condition yourself.” The smile faded. “You will have a set period of time once every day in which the case will be available for you to open. You will be locked in your room until you are finished, and will not have access to the rest of the facility until _all _tools have been put away. There are sensors embedded in the case that will detect if _anything _is missing. Once the case is closed you will not have access again until the next day, and for sessions the case will be first brought to the Animus chamber before letting you put them on. Understood?” 

“Paranoid much?” Desmond replied sarcastically. It wasn’t enough to mask the happiness underlying his tone. “Yeah, capisce.” He said it in the Italian accent, as it was supposed to be pronounced, instead of the American butcherization. Sofia blinked but made no comment, choosing instead to close the case and move it to the end of the bed on the floor. She straightened and brushed a strand of dark hair out of her eyes. 

“Pleasant dreams, Mr. Miles.” And she walked out, heels clicking ever so slightly on the laminate floor. Desmond, suddenly thrown into immediate darkness as the lights had shut off with the closing of the door, had to resort to Eagle Vision just to figure out where his pillow was so he could go back to sleep.

-/\\-

It was reasonably early when the case chimed. Reasonable for someone who had the memories of three pre-dawn awakeners ingrained into their psyche, anyway (Ezio nor Clay being one of them). So Desmond got up with a sigh and went to sit on the cool floor in front of it, pressing his thumb against the scanner and humming expectantly while he waited for it to confirm his identity. It opened with the slightest of hissing sounds. 

The first thing he did was grab his own personal blade and make sure that it hadn’t been irreparably damaged by the events at the Grand Temple, sighing in relief when he found that they had repaired it well enough that he had something to work with. The second thing he did was strip it and tear it completely apart so that he could give it the going-over it so desperately needed. The mechanics had a build-up of rubble dust, the spring was bent slightly, the leather bindings were stiff and dry, and the blade was dull. 

“Peasants,” Desmond muttered reproachfully. “It’s a simple job if you do it regularly. Gonna take me forever to get these back in proper shape.” 

And it did. It took way too long. Oiling, sharpening, polishing, gently bending back into position, and kneading the leather to make it pliable, he worked from piece to piece before he was able to assemble it back together again. That done, he moved on to the second blade. Ezio’s gauntlet. 

It was in worse condition after being unkept for the past yeamany years, but there were surprisingly less parts in need of actual repair overall. As he’d always hated how heavy it was, Desmond stripped the thing down into its respective parts, fixed them up, and then put it back together again. He neglected to attach the thick leather gauntlet and left the leather straps bare, like the other one. What he conceded with was carefully prying the stylized metal Assassin logo off of it, and then spending an unreasonable amount of time stitching it properly onto a thin and pliable leather sleeve. It had small metal rings on certain sides that he’d also stitched on, which the bare straps slipped easily through. The sleeve rested snugly against his arm and protected the mechanism underneath it, so he made a second one for his right hand blade. They ended up looking more like a cross between the 21st century and something Connor would have worn, but it suited Desmond’s tastes just fine. 

Of course, Ezio’s blade had the wrist-gun and dart attachments to it. The blade itself was also hollowed for the application of poison. The pieces had somehow remained near the gauntlet over the years; Desmond wasn’t quite certain how. But he finished with his task and put both hidden blades on, testing them and being pleased at how smoothly the mechanisms now operated. The pressure, the way they fit snugly against his wrists... 

The right one refused to engage six times out of ten. He winced. Extra work would have to be put in to developing the fine motor skills in that hand again. But when the time came to make his escape... well. He was certainly well-equipped. 

Glancing at the clock he sighed and began to put things back in the case, reluctantly leaving the hidden blades themselves for last. He had a therapy appointment to get to. _At least that would help solve one of his many ongoing problems..._

Mavis Truth was in an exceptionally foul mood that morning, even by her standards of what was normal behavior. Desmond could actually _feel_ the hostility as he entered into the room. It made him stop in the doorway, hesitant to go farther. One wrong move and death was imminent. _Never mess with a woman who waxes her lower neck hair. _

“Don’t just stand there,” Mavis snapped irritably. She was glaring at him over the top of her stern librarian new age clique glasses. Desmond approached her as one would approach a wounded raccoon. 

Mavis was... well, he was right to fear her. She was about 6’5” with an added three inches from a pair of black stilettos that may or may not have been sharpened in the heels and full-blooded Scottish, with a severe but classy rich red-brown pixie cut and the heavily starched gray pencil skirt and suit top did nothing to hide the muscle tone of a body builder. So, yes. As she was a good five inches taller than Desmond without her shoes and had both the personality and appearance of an Amazon warrior he was afraid in the interests of self-preservation.

She was currently glaring at him with eyes such a rich and dark brown they were almost black, so dark in fact that Desmond felt as if he were staring simultaneously into the void and the pit of Hell. 

“Umm... this is a bad time, isn’t it? I can come back later.” 

_“Sit.” _

“Okay.” He hadn’t been this scared of anyone since he and Shaun had accidentally set Lucy’s favorite sweater on fire. ‘Accidentally’ might have been the wrong word though, as it had recently become the preferred home of what Shaun had identified as an aggressive and poisonous spider prior to the purge... 

They went through his exercises - which made his right hand cramp at _least _twelve times by the end of the session - and also discussed various things pertaining to the Animus. The cool tone which Mavis assumed when she mentioned it gave Desmond the impression that it was one of the sources of her bad mood, so he tactfully decided to keep his answers as concise and short as possible to reduce the risk of incurring her wrath. Unfortunately sassyness was second nature to him, and he incurred her wrath anyway. 

Their session ended with him sprinting out of her office and a literal ninja throwing star embedding itself into the wall where his head had been moments before. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mavis Truth is, to all intents and purposes, the female version of a male character named Harrison Truth from a friend of mine’s Doctor Who story Timegirl currently up on Wattpad.
> 
> She was kind enough to help me build her character, so thanks FreeBirdSammie on Wattpad for 1: allowing me to make a Fem!Harris, 2: helping me figure out what she looked like, and 3: thinking it was awesome if she was uncanonically Harrison’s distant ancestor (as he is from the 51st century). 
> 
> ...Friends are awesome.


	8. You And What Ancestor?

Left. Right. Right. Dodge. Feint. Drop to one knee. Uppercut. Repeat. Knee to ribs. Duck. Backstep. Protect weak hand. Step on toes. Forehead to nose. Avoid retaliatory knee-jab to groin. This guy is freaking Jet Li and I’m not 100%. How am I even doing this. 

“Come on Vasquez, finish him!” Someone shouted from the audience. A large ring of bystanders had formed around Vasquez and Desmond as they fought, and Desmond paused just long enough to notice a guy a few years younger than him with light eyes and thick, wavy black hair staring intently at him before he got kicked in the stomach and went down on the floor. 

-/\\-

Involuntary Eagle Vision. He hadn’t experienced that in ages, not since he’d begun syncing with Ezio’s memories. Head ringing, blood dripping from his nose and split lip, he shook his head to clear it and made eye contact with Clay. 

Except it wasn’t Clay. It was... memories. 

Clay came walking toward him through the indigo, barely visible and shimmering, entirely silver. He said nothing, just gave Desmond a look whilst tapping the side of his head.

Memories. And things suddenly made sense. 

Desmond closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath, searching through his mind for the lives of his ancestors. They’d always felt different than his own, like they didn’t quite belong yet existed naturally all the same. Opening them again, Connor’s broad-shouldered silvery form was regarding him expectantly.

No words. Just instant understanding. Use what we know. You know it too.

Desmond shot up off the floor and slammed his elbow into Vasquez’ windpipe, sending him staggering backwards in surprise. Wrapping his leg around his enemy’s, he tripped him and sent him down with a quick twist and release. 

Ezio was watching him now, leaning against a wall farther back from the fighting. Desmond kicked Vasquez in the side while he was struggling to get up, jumping back with a calculated Haytham flourish to avoid an uncoordinated swing of the fist. The movement cost him time, enough for his opponent to get back onto his feet. Vasquez rushed him. Desmond evaded it easily. He knew that, when the orderlies finally stepped in to do something, he had to be acting entirely in self-defense if he wanted to stay out of trouble.

“Come on and fight like a man!” Vasquez taunted. He spit a clot of blood out the side of his mouth, breathing ragged as he advanced with uneven footing. Desmond dodged another punch. “Or are you too much of a coward to stay in the ring?”

“Please. I could take you with one hand tied behind my back while blindfolded.” It wasn’t an arrogant statement. It was simple pure fact. Okay. Maybe a little arrogant. But the guy was asking for it.

“Yeah? You and what ancestor?” Vasquez snorted. The spectators where also laughing. Desmond met him with a steady and calm gaze.

“Connor Kenway. Haytham Kenway.” He decided to throw in another just because Sofia had informed him that he’d be sorting through his memories at some point in the near future. “Edward Kenway. Ezio Auditore da Firenze.” 

It really was satisfying to watch the color begin to drain from your opponent’s face. Desmond cracked a small smile before driving the point home.

“Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad. And you?” He could see the orderlies accompanied by security parting their way through the crowd. Vasquez came at him again, this time desperately, and Desmond whirled about to deliver a classic Altaïr backhand across his jaw. He sank to the floor just as security burst through. Before he could get back up for another retaliation he was being grabbed and escorted out of the commons area with prejudice. 

“Are you all right?” An orderly asked. Desmond wiped the blood from his nose, accepted a semi-damp towel when it was offered, and gently applied it to his split lip. He shrugged. 

“Just bumps and bruises. I’m fine.” The woman stared at the small trails and drops of blood smeared about the floor with wide eyes and glanced back at him, noting that both his nose and lip had stopped properly bleeding long before the bout had ended. 

“You really laid him out.”

“I don’t start a fight. But I’ll finish one if someone else does.” Desmond made a point of saying that a little more loudly than was necessary; the crowd started to disperse. They’d gotten the message. Moussa was smiling so wide it looked like his face was about to split apart, and Forester was holding his side wheezing. Desmond locked eyes with the wavy-haired guy again and began making his way toward him. 

“Hey.” The man started backtracking, so Desmond stopped. “Hey, look. I’m not gonna slug you. I swear. I just saw you watching me, okay?” He said nothing, simply staring down at his shoes and avoiding eye contact. “I’m Desmond.”

“Yeah, I know who you are.” He finally glanced back up again. “Charlie.” 

“Can I come closer?”

“Sure.” Charlie ran his fingers awkwardly though his thick hair a few times as Desmond approached, hands shoved into the pockets of his light blue pants. There was an uncomfortable silence.

“Sooo....”

“I wasn’t stalking you. I swear.”

“Dude, chill. I seriously have no intention of hurting you. I’m just curious.” Charlie frowned, then nodded. 

“I guess I’d better start at the beginning then...”

-/\\-

“Wow. That’s... that’s seriously messed up,” Desmond said when Charlie got done explaining everything that had happened to him in the Grand Temple. “Thanks for keeping those guys from cutting into me, though.” Charlie shrugged. 

“No problem.” They were sitting on one of the second level walkways of the commons area with their legs dangling over the edge, each working their way through a plain vanilla ice cream cone. The food wasn’t all that bad in the place. Just bland when it came to variety. Desmond took a thoughtful lick. 

“And you’d been working with these people for how long?” He asked. Charlie’s gaze darkened.

“A little over four years, give or take. Woke up in a freaking prison cell wearing psych ward pajamas and immediately had my head scrambled by the Animus. Fun times.” He drew one knee up to rest his chin on it, staring down into the space below them without really seeing it. “Relived the life of my late 13th Century Persian ancestor named Shahin Parviz. I prefer Shahin if people must address me as- well, him.”

“Why’s that?” A wry smile. 

“Because ‘Parviz’ is Persian for ‘Lucky’ and I really hate that nickname.” 

“Your nickname is Lucky and your ancestor’s surname is-”

“Yes, it is. Shut up please.” Desmond laughed. 

“Yikes.” He arched a mischievious eyebrow. “That’s pretty bad luck.” Charlie took a swipe at his head, which he effortlessly ducked. “I’m joking. So Shahin, huh. Do you prefer that or Charlie?”

“Definitely Charlie. Not that anyone around here cares.” Charlie shrugged his shoulders, swiping his tongue along the peak of the vanilla ice cream and flicking it to the back of his mouth. “It’s easier for the Abstergo employees to remember who your ancestor is than to remember your Subject number. We cease to exist as people when we come in here, remember. They’ll probably stick you with one of your ancestor’s names soon too. I’d jump the gun and tell them exactly which one.” He grimaced. “Took me four months to get them to stop calling me Parviz and start calling me Shahin after they’d started.” 

“Ouch. Tough break.”

“Drove me nuts.” 

“How do I get ahead of them on that?” Desmond asked. 

“Next time you go in for a session. Just tell Sofia how you want to be called and she’ll see to it that word gets around.” 

“She calls everyone by their actual names. Why?” Charlie shrugged. 

“Who knows? She’s too sentimental to be cut out for Templar life, but it’s not like her dad knew that when he inducted her into the Order or anything.”

“Mr. Miles?”

“Speak of the Devil,” Charlie muttered, biting the top off of his ice cream with his lips curled partially around his more temperature-sensitive teeth. Desmond smirked, leaning forward slightly to get a better view of the floor below. He flicked his EV on with mild disinterest and began scanning for Sofia Rikkin, finally spotting her in the middle of the commons area among the tables. 

“Mr. Miles?” She called again. Desmond flicked back to normal vision, then shoved two fingers into his mouth with his free hand to whistle. She looked up, saw where he was, and sighed. “Can you please come down?”

“Can I finish my ice cream in peace first?” Momentary indecision crossed her face. On the one hand, she would get whatever it was she wanted with him done more quickly if she said no. On the other, if she said yes she wouldn’t have to navigate the stairs and pathways to get to him. 

“Just don’t take too long,” she conceded. 

“Gotcha.” In a lower volume he said to Charlie, “Isn’t very important.” 

“Mm.” A thoughtful look suddenly crossed the man’s face. “You don’t have an ancestor that knows how to speak Persian do you? I think I’m the only one in the entire facility- only one still in my right mind, anyway.” 

“Uh...” Desmond frowned, sifting through several lifetimes worth of memories. He settled on one of Altaïr’s. “I know I can read it, so I should do just fine speaking it. Why?” 

«Because I’d rather be able to speak with you without anyone knowing what we were saying,» Charlie replied promptly in Persian. 

«Oh, I see. Make sure security and the techs don’t know what’s going on. But why the secrecy?»

«I have a feeling that the only reason you’re still here is because it works for you. And once you get what you need you’ll be out of here. I’m in if you’ll have me. For both getting what you need to get and then getting out of this place.»

«You’re hired. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a business meeting.» Desmond finished off the cone and stood up, hoisted himself over the railing, and did a neat dive onto the floor below to land a few feet in front of Sofia. He dusted himself off and cracked a smile, rising up from his impact crouch without even a wince and looking no worse for wear. 

“Shall we?” Sofia huffed a sigh and indicated that he should follow her out of the commons area. Charlie laughed from where he stayed sitting on the second level, swinging his legs back and forth like a small kid. 


	9. Old Friends in New Faces

“So? What’s this about?” Desmond asked as he followed Sofia through the hallways. She glanced briefly to her left where he was walking, but didn’t turn her head. They came to a high-security door and entered into another part of the facility. Desmond felt a shiver run down his spine when he got the impression that it was emitting more of a ‘care home’ vibe than ‘psychiatric ward.’ He had a sneaking suspicion that he was about to get a glimpse at what his life could have been like after the events in Juno’s Temple if his father hadn’t shoved him into the Animus immediately after. 

He wasn’t disappointed. Entering into a specific room the first thing that he noticed was the numerous amount of people in various states of dementia and altzeimer’s. Others seemed perfectly lucid but were in wheelchairs or crutches, and their ages ranged from early twenties to late seventies. 

“This all a result of the Animus?” He asked pointedly. 

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“You made ‘improvements,’ huh?” Sofia stiffened. 

“I’m not sure I like your tone, Desmond.” 

“You weren’t supposed to.” He watched as an orderly wheeled one of their subjects past; the middle-aged man happened to glance upward. He regarded Desmond with a sort of sad, knowing smile. 

“Mentore Auditore,” he whispered. “It’s been a long time.” Desmond opened his mouth to correct the man before he suddenly was struck by a nagging feeling of recognition; hedging on an instinct, he flicked into Eagle Vision and took a step back in surprise. The man, helpless in the wheelchair and clothed in sky blue, was replaced by a solid silver Assassin in Renaissance Italian robes reclining leisurely as he would in an armchair. Desmond slipped back out into the real world. 

“Damiano Adone,” he murmured softly. “I- the last- just before Constantinople.” There was a little more Italian inflected in the sentence than it would ever have had without the influence of Ezio’s memories, and it made Sofia look back and forth between the two in surprise. 

“You know each other?” She asked.

“Of course I do,” Desmond replied tersely with the Italian accent, not taking his eyes off of Adone’s descendent. The orderly, having sensed something was up, had been courteous enough to stop. “I never forget the Novices I’ve trained, no matter what century they lived in.” 

“Wha- all of them?”

“Every single one.” 

“You know you’re not actually your ancestors, yes?” Desmond sighed, eyes lingering on the ageing ghost of Damiano Adone as he was taken from the room. 

“You know, I used to think that. But I have access to the entire lifetime of their memories, not just parts, and I remember everything as if I were there. Everything ties together, too. Minerva, Jupiter, Juno. They spoke through my ancestors to me. It’s all connected. And... I _feel _it, in my bones. In my blood. In my _being_. Feels like I’ve lived six lifetimes, this one and Clay’s included. The... the _tiredness_. And I just- I know I’ve got more ancestors I’m going to have to synchronize with in the future. But... I guess the worst part about living more than one life is seeing the same thing happen over and over again to different people. Seeing... seeing those people, people my ancestors loved, and knowing that by this time they’re long dead.” He looked directly into Sofia’s soul it seemed, golden eyes bright and full of hard-gained experience that hadn’t been there before he’d been abducted over three years ago. 

“I think you need to see a counselor,” Sofia recommended quietly with an uncomfortable clearing of her throat.

“Nah. I just need some decent rest for once that doesn’t involve fighting for my sanity in a coma.” 

She opened her mouth to speak and, upon realizing that he was actually completely serious for once, thought better of it. Desmond glanced back into the room with interest. 

“Why did you bring me here, Dr. Rikkin?” He asked. 

“I- we always introduce new Subjects to this part of the facility,” she explained.

“To show them what happens if they don’t comply.” The distaste was evident. Sofia bit her bottom lip at his remark and narrowed her eyes unhappily. 

“To let them know how serious it is to not work with the equipment the way it is meant to be operated,” she amended tactfully, each word pointedly enunciated. Desmond shrugged, temporarily back to his old self. 

“Eh. Tom-ay-to, tom-ah-to.” 

“The speaker can choose to speak it in whatever way they wish,” she huffed. 

“But it doesn’t change the fact that it’s still a fruit,” he pointed out cryptically. _No matter what label you give something, it will not change what it is. _It felt like an odd combination between Connor logic and Altaïr pragmatism. The meaning seemed lost on Sofia, but maybe that was for the best. 

“I believe you have a therapy session this afternoon, do you not?” She asked. Desmond groaned, his muscles suddenly aching just _thinking_ about it.

-/\\-

“Are you _sure _this is completely necessary?” Desmond whined. Mavis, in the process of sticking his lower right arm and hand full of acupuncture needles to stimulate proper muscle toning, smiled evilly. She’d never even cracked a grin before that moment, and it solidified Desmond’s opinion that she enjoyed watching people suffer.

“Yes.” She glanced at her computer for their session schedule for the day. “And we’ll do deep tissue massage when we’re done with this.” 

“...No...” 

“If you get knots it’ll only hinder the healing process.” She drove the point home by jabbing a needle directly into the center of his lower arm.

“_Ow!!_” He glared resentfully at her from where he was literally pinned to the table. “I’m not a cushion!” Mavis shrugged, running her finger along a needle shaft and gently tapping the pointy end. Desmond noticed for the first time that she had semi-short long nails that had been filed into sharp triangular points and French manicured. 

“Could’ve fooled me.” _Stab._

“_Mmphf!_”

“Don’t be such a child, Miles.”

“That’s easy for you to say when you’re the one with the blunt end of the stabby things, Truth.” 

There was a long period of silence in which they faced off against each other, eyes narrowed and expressions annoyed. He pinned to the table, she tapping her nails impatiently on its surface. The needles in his arm trembled slightly as his muscles tensed. 

Mavis suddenly relaxed, surprising him. 

“We’ve all got our part to play Desmond,” she murmured tiredly. “We don’t have to like it.” She put another needle into the growing collection he had, his hand resembling a porcupine at the present moment. She was gentler about it than she had been a few minutes ago, and Desmond wondered what had elicited her change in mood. 

A slow, deliberate blink later, and the room was laid out before him in Eagle Vision. Mavis was still her usual shade of red so bright and blood-colored she looked like she’d bathed in the blood of her enemies, but there was a shimmer of gold as Desmond found what he was looking for: the source of her solemnity. It was a picture mostly hidden behind the mountain of paper on her desk and the mobile phone which adorned said paperwork. 

Desmond flicked back to normal vision to get a better look at the photo and frowned. There was a young man framed in it, with light blond hair and gold-flecked eyes. He was pale but covered in freckles, and he was wearing a Royal Military Academy uniform. It looked a few years old. Suddenly remembering the recent news involving British forces - Shaun had got him in the habit of checking that stuff, curse the man - and, coupled with the mobile phone as a clue, Desmond wondered if this friend of hers had gotten caught in a bad place. 

He was about to ask when he noticed Mavis noticing that he’d noticed and decided it was better to say nothing at all. The overly-aggressive addition of a needle only served to confirm this as the best course of action.


	10. The Legend of Big Bad

“Hey Des!” Charlie said happily as he leaned in the open doorway to Desmond’s room. He’d knocked, which was a noise Desmond had partially forgotten since being kidnapped out of New York City. 

“Hey Charlie.” 

“Whatcha doin?” He ambled over with his thumbs hooked on the edges of his pockets, dark curls bouncing and shining with damp after a recent shower. He knelt back on his heels and peered over Desmond’s shoulder at the case situated at the end of the bed. “What’s that?” 

“You mind being locked up for an hour or so?”

“I already am, aren’t I?” 

“Fair enough.” Desmond pressed his thumb against the scanner, there was a beep, the light turned green, and it opened with a slight hiss and click. Charlie whistled in appreciation when he popped the lid and revealed the hidden blades; they both briefly jerked their heads up to watch the door slide shut with a finite _thud _before returning to the matter at hand. Desmond hefted the right one and dropped it carefully into Charlie’s grasp, where he cradled it with admiration and a great deal of awed respect. Desmond himself took out the left blade with the special attachments added to it, quietly inspecting the mechanism with familiarity and diligence. He’d noticed that he treated this one better than the other one and, after searching through his personal feelings and combining them with some of Ezio’s, he had come to the conclusion that he held it in higher regard because a) it was Giovanni’s and b) Leonardo had fixed and upgraded it. The sentimental value was priceless. 

“These are yours, yes?” Charlie had ejected the blade and was running his finger cautiously along its edge, careful not to slip and draw blood. 

“Well, that one is. This one-” he hefted the one he was holding in a firm grip - “belonged to my ancestor Ezio. I put up such a fuss about Abstergo looking after them properly that they gave them to me to upkeep instead.” 

“They’re afraid of you,” Charlie commented perceptively. Desmond looked up from what he was doing long enough to get his right blade back and met his companion’s light hazel eyes. 

“...Yes.”

“Why is that?” And so Desmond took a deep breath, plunged into his story from the very beginning in the Assassin compound in Black Hills, South Dakota, and didn’t stop until he’d gotten through his intended sacrifice in the Grand Temple. He left nothing out, and all the while he rigorously attended to his hidden blades. Charlie was a patient and respectful listener, and when Desmond ended his tale he simply leaned his head against the wall he was sitting against and looked thoughtful. 

“You should have died,” he said simply. Desmond, in the process of closing up the case as his work was done, snorted derisively. 

“No, really?” 

“I’m serious. No human being could survive that.” He gestured to Desmond’s right arm. “Can I...?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Sure.” Charlie gently took hold of his lower arm and inspected it; Desmond was suddenly reminded that Charlie had told him he had two degrees related to biomedical engineering. One for the tech aspect, and one for the organic aspect. The guy was brilliant. 

He seemed less interested in the pale scar tissue that resembled circuit board pathways and more in the functionality of the limb itself, which Desmond found somewhat confusing. Most everyone he’d met had been riveted by the pattern. But then again, most everyone he’d met hadn’t been inside the Grand Temple and seen how messed up his hand had looked almost immediately after. 

“This is... this is a real piece of work they did here,” Charlie finally said, dropping his arm with a frown. “How’s the muscle toning?”

“Weak, but improving. They’re optimistic that I can get to 95% of its former strength if I really work at it, and right now it’s hovering at about 87%.”

“Eighty-_huh!?_” It was Desmond’s turn to frown. 

“What?” 

“Optimistically, I would have said 30-45. Even with the amount of work they did. I mean- where are they getting their numbers from?” 

“Uh... Sophia said they were based on past patient recovery records, and my own recovery rate.” Charlie nodded thoughtfully. “What’s on your mind?”

“Hmm? Oh. Nothing. Just trying to work out the figures is all.” 

“Ezio?” They both looked up at the orderly with a glare, and he backed off a little bit. 

“Nobody knocks in this place,” Charlie tutted reprovingly. Desmond _tsked. _

“Shameful. And my name is _Desmond, _thank you very much. What do you want, anyway?” The man cleared his throat.

“Mr. Rikkin has requested your presence. I’ve been sent to escort you.” Desmond and Charlie exchanged a glance. 

«You have any idea what it’s about?» Charlie asked, switching effortlessly to Persian.

«Nope. And I won’t know unless I go.»

“Well, good luck.» He climbed onto the bed and leaned back against Desmond’s pillow with his hands behind his head and a cheeky grin as Desmond himself paused in the doorway with the orderly hovering nearby, looking suitably confused and excluded. «You’re gonna need it.»

“If you get mud on my sheets I’m going to strangle you,” Desmond warned in English before walking out. 

-/\\- 

Alan Rikkin. Desmond remembered him. The man had been present for the last part of his sessions into Altaïr’s memories, piercing gaze and silver hair visible through a sheet of bulletproof tinted glass that separated the conference room from the lab space. It had only been Lucy’s intervention - her persuasion that they needed him in case their efforts proved fruitless and his memories could be of further purpose - that had saved his life. Rikkin had been willing to let him die after he’d outlived his usefulness, and Desmond would not soon forget it. The man had been Vidic’s superior, in charge of the Animus project as a whole and the face of Abstergo as a corporation. On paper, he was the key owner. And he had been Vidic’s handler, a Grandmaster in every sense of the word.

At the moment he was sitting behind an expensive desk made of mahogany and glass; a chrome bar inlaid in the paneling of the table surface that was projecting a holographic screen into the air. A shimmering keyboard made entirely of light was set a few inches from the edge in front of his hands, which were resting on the wrists with the fingers arched together and his chin perched lightly atop them. He stared through the cold blue light with intelligent and emotionless pale brown eyes which were set in a face so expressionless it might have been sculpted of fine marble. 

“Desmond Miles,” he said quietly. “Have a seat.” Desmond glanced around discreetly until he spotted a chair in the corner a few seconds later, sitting down without moving it from its location. He’d gotten the sense that Rikkin kept it there so that he had a clear view of the space beyond, which happened to be the expansive security room. There were screens _everywhere_, keeping an eye on _everything_. McGowan, who Desmond had learned was chief of security, was seated in front of a large array of terminals watching intently. 

“What’s this about?” Desmond had the sudden apprehensive feeling that this might be about his infrequent forays down ancient and restricted halls. It was only a matter of time before someone noticed. 

The holographic screen and keyboard dissolved into nothingness; there was only air between the two of them now. Rikkin leaned forward slightly in his seat, expensive leather creaking ever so softly with the movement. 

“I’ve been watching your progress with interest,” he said simply. His voice was low and quiet, and reserved. “To survive such a catastrophic blast of energy coursing through your system with only extensive superficial damage to your hand is, in and of itself, nothing short of a miracle. To be healing so quickly after being in a medically-induced coma for the past two years... even more remarkable.” Desmond felt his breath catch in his upper chest, heart beginning to beat against his ribcage as adrenaline slowly started dispersing through his body. 

“And then, your Animus sessions themselves. To fully synchronize with more than one ancestor and emerge from it no worse the wear has never happened before. And yet you’ve managed to do it with three, and have partial synchronization with a fourth and the displaced memories of Subject 16 existing in your cerebellum aside.” 

“...” Desmond cleared his throat, fingernails slowly digging deeper into the palms of his hands. Rikkin’s eyes glinted, betraying faintly the rabid interest lurking within. 

“As I’ve said, it’s quite the miracle that you’ve survived all that has happened to you. Things which I find it hard to believe any man or woman capable of enduring. Some would suggest that you weren’t...” there was a meaningful pause. Desmond quit breathing altogether. “...Fully human.” 

_You should have died._ Charlie’s words echoed in his head. He’d ignored them at the time as being eccentric, but Alan Rikkin wasn’t the type of person to believe in _anything _unless it was backed by several kinds of scientific fact.

_No human being could survive that_. 

“I- I don’t- I don’t know what to say,” Desmond murmured with a sharp inhale of breath. Needless to say he was star struck; certain things were coming back to him now that made Rikkin’s theory make a little too much sense. Not that he’d ever admit that to the man intentionally. “You think - what - that I’m some sort of alien or something? Give me a break.”

“Not an alien Mr. Miles. But a direct descendant of Those Who Came Before, perhaps. Why was it they chose you again to save the world?” 

“Because of my ancestors.” 

“And why, might I ask, were they so important? Minerva picked Ezio to be her medium through which she spoke to you. Juno selected Connor to safeguard the secret of the Grand Temple so that you might access it. And Altaïr? His fascination with the Apple of Eden allowed Jupiter to contact you, once again through the memories of Ezio. They were indisputably important figures in the shaping of your Brotherhood and some of the most accomplished Assassins aside. But this hardly qualifies them as reasons to settle on _you_. They were chosen _because _of you. So I ask again, what is so special about you that they would go to the trouble?” 

“... I don’t know.” But he did. Deep down he did.


	11. Call Me Ibn-La-Ahad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! Today is Labor Day in the United States, which is a holiday we take off to celebrate the achievements of the working industry (particularly the creation of the labor movement which was designed to keep the laborers' economic, social, and health rights safeguarded or improved upon), so I'm doing early posting to celebrate. Enjoy!

_Altaïr had felt it, perhaps the moment he had properly set eyes on it in Al Mualim’s study, that he and this artifact were one. He could sense that they had a shared origin, and that it had come to him for a purpose. Malik, so practically-minded that he knew the Apple was advanced ancient technology instead of denouncing it as witchcraft as most others did, was still wary of the relic and was constantly admonishing Altaïr for his curiosity. _

_But it had given him so many ideas. In six short years he had discovered a way to activate the hidden blade by muscle tension in the lower arm and shoulder instead of the traditional version which had a wire attached to the severed finger for a flexing trigger, and shortly afterward how to make the blade safe for use without the need of sacrificing the finger altogether. Malik had been happy about that, as it allowed him to keep what was left of him intact while still being able to use a hidden blade on the right hand. With that discovery had come the realization that more than one blade could be used at a time, and it had revolutionized the way they went about their missions. _

_The Apple wasn’t doing anyone any harm, and he was being careful with it. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that it held... well, the secrets he had been searching for ever since the events inside Solomon’s Temple. _

_Maria stirred restlessly in her sleep, snuggling closer against his side. It was enough to break off his reveries. _

_«Hey,» she murmured groggily. Altaïr smiled, hoisting himself up slightly on an elbow so that he could look down at her. She was perfect; her brown eyes and cloud of brunette hair so dark it gleamed like ebony loosened at night to float around her sharp-featured face. He leaned down and kissed her forehead. _

_«Hello.» A glance out the window. «What are you doing awake? It isn’t even near dawn yet.» Maria gazed at him steadily. _

_«I could ask you the same thing.»_

_«I was just thinking about the mysterious origins of the Apple. Someone had to create it, yes?»_

_«That really does bother you, doesn’t it?» Maria asked tiredly. While she made her opinion on his fascination with the object obvious, she was just as enraptured with its history as he was... If in a more cautious and studious way._

_«Well, yes. Who were the creators? What knowledge did they possess, that allowed them to design such a relic? And what happened to them?» Maria sighed in mild annoyance, and Altaïr knew better than to press further at that moment. «But enough of that. You know why I am awake. Why are you?» _

_A soft chuckle. Maria entwined her fingers in his and gently laid his hand to rest on her greatly swollen stomach. Altaïr could feel the baby kicking; strong kicks, and many of them. Their firstborn._

_«Someone’s restless,» he commented happily. He was both excited and apprehensive, wanting greatly to be a father but at the same time terrified because he remembered his own in the haziest of memories. It wasn’t as if he had intended to forget Umar, but... he was but eleven when he had lost him. _

_«I think he is impatient to come into the world,» Maria replied drily, interrupting his new tangent of thoughts._

_«Oh? And what makes you think it is a boy?» _

_«Mm... motherly intuition.»_

_«In other words, you guess.» She laid her head against his chest, and he rested his chin against her temple. _

_«Oh, hush. We’ll know soon enough, now won’t we?» _

_«Yes.» She would be right, of course. Maria had that annoying habit of never being wrong that he found both attractive and infuriating because it meant he was never right. «Yes, we will.» _

-/\\- 

Desmond jerked awake with a sharp cry, startled by the vividness of the dream. He knew now that they were memories, but it never ceased to disturb him that his subconscious had more control over how and when he chose to relive them than his conscious mind did. He always worried, particularly after such an aggressive bout of dreams like that, if he’d be having headaches and ghostly visions later in the day. It wasn’t a problem anymore, not after what had happened in the Grand Temple. But it was still a fear that gnawed away at his otherwise peaceful coexistence with these newfound - or was it oldfound? - memories in his head. 

He wondered why it was that he never dreamwalked through Ezio or Connor’s memories. They were always Altaïr, and Altaïr’s alone. It might have had something to do with his being the first memories Desmond ever encountered through the Animus, but somehow he knew there was more to it than that. There was a certain... connection that the two of them had made. 

Connor had taught him the price of vengeance and that everyone, even the innocent, lost in war. Haytham had taught him that there were always two sides to every story, especially after Desmond had gained full access to _all _of his memories, not just the ones Juno had wanted to show him. And Ezio. Ezio had taught him how to fight, how to survive, how to lead, and how to keep going when it seemed like there was no hope left to continue the battle. That you always had more friends than you knew, and that it was impossible for even the strongest man to win the war without allies. ...And also how to flirt, but that was another matter altogether. 

But Altaïr had taught him something far more valuable. He’d given him a cause to fight for again and shown that, while the climb would be hard, even the most wounded by your betrayal could eventually forgive you. And after running from his birthright as an Assassin on his sixteenth birthday - well. Desmond had been given hope that they would forgive _him_, and that he could come home. Not necessarily back to the compound; he still hated even the memory of that place. No. Home was the people. His mother, above all. His dad... yeah, sure. Why not. And then he’d met Shaun and Rebecca, and he suddenly had friends. He had been _home_. Altaïr had led him back home. 

Perhaps that was the reason Desmond had decided to get a tattoo on his left arm that was the exact pattern engraved in the metal bracer Altaïr had worn so many years ago (with some Desmond flair thrown in). He’d felt a closeness with the long dead Master and had wanted to honor him in his own unique way. 

Desmond sighed, recognizing as he stared at the ceiling that he wouldn’t be getting back to sleep anytime soon. Slowly he sat up, rubbing the gunk and stray lash out of his eyes. There was that feeling again. Like there was another presence in the room, unseen. He’d begun to recognize what that meant. Blinking slowly, he switched to Eagle Vision to see Altaïr’s ghostly silver form just visible sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed. The spectre simply continued to stare at him, silent and purposeful. 

“What is it that you want from me??” Desmond groaned, falling back against his pillow with a dramatic _flop_. “Already stalked through your memories once tonight okay. Can I be left alone now?” 

Ezio and Connor were more obvious, and Haytham left him alone for the most part. But Altaïr showed up most often, and often gave the most obscure advice. They were all memories, nothing more. It was simply his subconscious prodding him into finding something familiar that one of them remembered. All the same, it was really beginning to feel as if he were being plagued by ghosts. 

Altaïr blinked slowly, eyes slightly narrowed like a cat’s. Desmond sighed, staring at the ceiling once again. 

“Fine, fine. Since you’re just a figment of my imagination you won’t leave until I figure out what it is you’re trying to tell me.” He began rooting through Altaïr’s memories, doing his best to cross-reference with the dream he had just been having and how it related to something he was trying to figure out. It was like a nagging itch at the back of his brain that he just couldn’t reach, and quite frankly he was too tired to be successful at that point. Desmond gave up on what had been _said _and focused on how it had _felt_, suddenly recognizing that his and Altaïr’s emotions on the subject of not being quite... fully human coincided perfectly. There was suspicion, but no absolute proof. Yet Altaïr’s thoughts and inquiries kept returning to the Apple, which made sense really. It was a Precursor artifact, and whether he had known what that meant he had made the connection between himself and it.

Desmond, anxious now to figure out what he had discovered, was interrupted from his thoughts by the door sliding open and sharp light spilling into his room. An Amazonian figure in high heels and a decidedly tight pantsuit silhouetted against the rectangle of incandescent, tapping her foot impatiently. Desmond winced, then frowned. He was supposed to have an Animus session today, not therapy. 

...Not that he was fond of either...

“Get up,” Mavis snapped hurriedly.

“Why?” Desmond croaked. His throat felt like sandpaper from sleeping with his mouth slightly open on accident. There was a heavy sigh. “All right, all right. I’m up. Jeez.” He stumbled after her into the hall, noticing that she was decidedly nervous and harried in appearance. “Uh... you okay?” 

“Shut up, and follow me.” Now he _knew _that something was wrong. Mavis had no authority when it came to granting him permission to get out of his room on his own volition. 

“But what about-”

“Camera’s on a loop feed and the door sensor is scrambled. Hurry _up_ already.” Desmond decided that he’d rather comply with her and face repercussions if they got caught instead of being on the receiving end of her wrath, so he took off at a run.

“Care to tell me what we’re doing exactly?” No answer. “Fine, fine. I’m totally used to running out of an Abstergo facility having no idea where I’m going following a woman who scares me because she could punch my teeth in and then getting dragged into a war after riding around in a car trunk and then living off the grid for several months and-”

“For the love of all that is holy, _shut up and breathe why don’t you!?_” 

_Heeeeee... hoooooo... _

Mavis paused long enough to give him a glare for being Extra™️, slapping her hand underneath his jaw and snapping his mouth closed. 

“Idiot. We’re almost there.” Desmond rubbed his chin and shot her a glare that suggested contemplative homicide but obeyed. Mavis glanced about, nervous. Desmond flicked into Eagle Vision and did a once-over just to make sure.

“It’s clear.” 

“How do you know?” She was eyeing him appraisingly.

“EV.” 

“...Right.” Mavis turned sharply, punching in a key code into the number pad next to a door. It hissed open and they darted inside. There was an orderly and a technician also in the cramped lab space, but Desmond was suddenly under the impression that he was among... allies. He wouldn’t go so far as to say ‘friends’ quite yet. 

“Who-”

“I’m with Erudito,” Mavis said quickly. It was sufficient to shut him up for a while. _The _Erudito? The infamous hacker group that had contacted him shortly before entering Juno’s Temple to retrieve the Apple? They’d given him access to some valuable information that his team had kept from him on grounds of his being a recent addition. Sensible, but information he had needed to know nonetheless. Later on Shaun and Rebecca had given him that access unrestricted, which also happened to be in direct defiance of his father’s express instructions. 

Mavis smirked at his dumbfounded expression. 

“Yes, _That Erudito,” _she stressed with some amusement. “And these... these are some of my little co-conspirators.”

“You managed to infiltrate Abstergo!?” 

“Yeah. So?” 

“S- really? That’s not a big deal to you or anything?” Mavis shrugged. 

“We’re here, aren’t we?” 

“And... where exactly _is _here?” Desmond was viewing their cramped surroundings with mild confusion. This time it was someone else’s turn to speak. 

“Tech support.” The woman had her hair thrown back in a braid that was falling apart and her feet propped up on a stool. “But I’ve managed to dabble in a few other things as well.” 

“You’ll have access to this place every once in a while,” Mavis explained. “We do all our clandestine meetings here. Jack has made sure he’s been assigned permanently to your schedule so he can keep an eye on you, and Charity has backseat access into the mainframe. She can scramble the cameras when you want to do something... off the reserve. There’s a signal we can teach you. And I can schedule therapy appointments so that it looks like your time is occupied while you do other things if you wish.”

“Am I the first person you’ve revealed yourselves to?” 

“Yes.” 

“And why are you contacting me?” Desmond asked. His curiosity was piqued. Mavis rolled her eyes, which indicated that he was missing the obvious.

“Because one way or another you’re going to get out of here some day,” the techie said honestly. Desmond liked her. She was like a cross between Leonardo and Lucy; neat and organized but clearly in the middle of several unfinished projects that were all scattered in parts about the place. “And we can’t smuggle the information we’ve collected out on our own. Security is too tight.” 

“Uh huh. So you want me to be a courier.” The three of them winced.

“Look, Ezio, it’s not-” the orderly broke off when he saw Desmond wince. “I’m sorry, but I’ve never actually heard your real name.”

“That’s what they’re calling me, huh?” 

“...Yes. But I can change that, if you wish. Pick an ancestor and I’ll turn it around.”

“Can’t I just go by ‘Desmond?’ You know, my _name?_” The orderly shook his head apologetically. 

“We receive your Subject number and your ancestor. In your case, a _list _of your ancestors. It’s so hard to remember the number, so when we consult the chart-

“Yeah, I get the picture.” Desmond sighed, rummaging through his perspective options and mulling each over. He’d spent too much time in Ezio’s memories to feel comfortable with that, and the idea of memories being passed down through the blood had once been suggested to Ezio by a Doctor in Valencia. It had disturbed him. Haytham was... well, ick. No thank you. Connor was a pseudonym anyway, but it didn’t feel right. After all, Connor himself hadn’t truly appreciated being given a second name. 

Desmond considered each. He wanted a fresh start and he had a chance to get one in this place. Wipe the slate clean and start his life over a little bit. 

“Call me ‘Ibn-La’Ahad,’” he finally said after a few minutes. _Son of None._


	12. But Why Is The Rum Gone??

Kingston, Caribbean, 1721

_“Sorry mate,” Edward murmured drunkenly as he maneuvered through the busy streets of the British port town and narrowly avoided shoulder-checking someone going the other direction. He was sober for once, which was ironic, because depression seemed to make him sound as if he were on the sauce. _

_It was six months to the day since Mary had died, back in April. And while he had found - finally, he had found - purpose by aiding and joining the Assassins’ Brotherhood in the West Indies it didn’t do much to dull the pain of remembering that one of his few true friends had never seen him get his life back in order. In fact, none of them had. Mary Read had been the most recent to die, in a long procession of those who had either betrayed him or had the life of the pirate catch up with them. _

_“Contemplating a quick nip at the local establishment?” Adéwalé asked quietly. The two of them had been training together under the careful eye of Ah Tabai, and this was simply the latest in a long line of extraction missions in which the Bureau leader was in charge of reporting back their progress. Edward had never fully appreciated just how much more he had had to learn, but he was relishing the sense of success he got every time he won his Mentor’s approval. He’d never had anyone approve of him before, and it was an oddly - if unfamiliar - pleasant feeling._

_“Just yearning for absent friends,” Edward replied quietly. He hadn’t been near a tavern for a good few weeks, not since he’d gotten the letter back from Bristol. Anne and Adé had let him quietly grieve for the passing of his wife Caroline, and had been supportive if respectively distant. But he’d learned about Jenny in the same letter, and the realization that he was a father of a daughter who had recently lost her mother had caused him to re-evaluate his life choices. One of those had been his drinking habits, of which he was beginning to conclude that there was a legitimate problem. So he was dry, and suffering through his cold turkey with some sense of dignity at least (Adé might or might not have physically grabbed his arm and partially dragged him past a few establishments during the early days of his withdrawal). He was determined to be sober for a long while before even _touching _alcohol again. _

_“Where’s this target of ours anyway?” Edward grumbled. He was still missing his rum. Adé smiled knowingly and began scanning the crowd. _

_“I still can’t seem to harness the Sense when I wish to,” he sighed. “Better luck if you do it.” Edward nodded, flicking effortlessly into Eagle Vision. The world dissolved into indigo, with white hiding spots and blue harmless passerby. Red flickered in the corners of his vision, and he gently tapped Adéwalé on the shoulder. The pair of them melted into the crowd and made their way to a shaded area of trees where he could idly watch for the courier they were supposed to snatch a set of official documents from. Edward leaned against the rough bark almost boredly, Adéwalé scanning for possible trouble but knowing that his companion would spot it far more quickly than himself. _

_Bright gold streaked across Edward’s field of vision, accompanied by an insanely loud thundering of hooves._

_“Just our luck,” he sighed, blowing his bangs impatiently out of his eyes._

_“The wagon?”_

_“The wagon.” Adéwalé sighed too. They both gave chase; after all, a trail of golden dust was left in their target’s wake with the Sense._

-/\\-

“You’re progressing through Edward Kenway’s memories well,” Sofia commented as Desmond came out of the Animus. 

“Quiet please, I’ve got a headache,” Desmond groaned, stroking his temples with his index and middle fingers combined together on either side. Sofia nodded, and he went to go give a once-over to his blades and pack them up while still nursing his migraine. He’d started getting them again with the in-rush of new ancestral memories, but they were fading the more often he integrated them in. They had come all at once, spanning Edward’s entire life from birth to murder by Templars, and now made his head feel... _full_, was the only word that even came remotely close to describing what it was like to have so much information from so many people crammed into his skull. Especially since it was... a quick tally of years lived... 

-Altaïr: 92 | Ezio: 65 | Edward: 42

-Haytham: 55 | Connor: 62* | Clay: 30

-Current Age: Almost 29

That tallied a total of nearly 375 years worth of information stuck in his brain. Considering most people ended up forgetting things in their life at around the age of forty, and continued to lose their memory more and more the longer they lived, it was something. And Desmond remembered every little thing perfectly. 

And when he said _everything... _he meant _everything_. Like being in the womb and being born. The agony of death before everything slipped away. It was eidetic, permanent and forever. There were things from his early life that he had forgotten that he suddenly remembered with startling clarity. If only he’d had eidetic memory when he was learning in school. Life would have been so much easier. 

He could speak Welsh fluently now too, which was... new. Combining Edward’s sparse understanding of Spanish with Haytham’s more advanced knowledge and Ezio’s ‘I know Latin so I can guess what you mean’ gave him a pretty good grasp of Español as well. In his spare time - which was in such a large quantity that Desmond was starting to get cabin fever - he had begun studying Esperanto because it was like a coalition of the major European languages and would undoubtedly come in handy once he escaped. He’d also been modernizing his understanding of the other languages in his arsenal. He was pretty much a scholar now; he could easily engage in a conversation about Renaissance art or Classic Literature without missing a beat, appreciated Classical Music only because one of his ancestors - most likely Haytham - had, knew history like the back of his hand, and could speak English, Arabic, Italian, Greek, Welsh, Latin, Middle English, sparse French and German from the crusades era (plus a fair amount of 1500s French), Persian, Spanish, imperfect but passable Turkish, and Mohawk. And thanks to Altaïr’s extremely long life, he knew how to read and speak Babylonian, Hebrew, Ancient Greek, Persian, Chaldean, Aramaic, and had a sparse - very sparse - understanding of Mongolian. Not to mention Clay’s hacking skills which required the ability to read, edit, and create computer code of multiple variations. 

Desmond was basically a walking Google Translate and encyclopedia for weird or arcane knowledge. He was strangely fine with that. But his head hurt. A lot. It was just... crammed with so much detail that was so immaculately kept that it was almost overwhelming sometimes. 

He’d begun seeing a counselor. Not because he’d wanted to, but because Sofia had required him to. Apparently saying anything along the lines of ‘I and my ancestors are basically one person’ was a red flag to these people. Truthfully it was a red flag no matter _who _you were talking to, but then again most innocent non-Templar civilians didn’t work with Animus users who had miraculously escaped having their brains fried. 

Desmond paused in stowing away his hidden blades to try and identify a lingering sensation he was feeling from his most recent Animus session, frowning when he suddenly recognized it. 

“Oh, that’s just great,” he muttered crossly. “Alcohol withdrawal. I haven’t had a drink in three years. Never had more than a nip of whiskey every blue moon to close out my work shift anyway, or a single Single when I was in Brazil. And _now_ I need to join AA!?” 

“Desmond?” Sofia called. Thankfully, she had respected his request for quiet. He still had a fading migraine. “What’s wrong?” 

“Is it... normal to pick up on your ancestor’s emotional state with this new Animus system?” He asked. Sofia frowned. 

“It’s extremely common, unfortunately. Frankly, I’m surprised it took you this long to experience a residual state.” She leaned against a metal table. “What exactly is the problem?” 

“Alcohol withdrawal.” She was looking amused now. 

“Nothing for it but to wait it out,” she sighed good-naturedly. “It should pass in about an hour or so.”

“Yippee.” _Jazz hands._ “Lucky me.” 

“Just be glad none of your ancestors smoked. That one? That lasts a lot longer and doesn’t ever fully go away.” 

Desmond finished packing his blades away and handed the case reluctantly to Jack, Mavis’ friend, who would take them back to his room. As for Desmond himself, he headed toward the commons to order an ibuprofen or two and some coconut milk. Edward actually liked it, so sue him. He was going to give it a try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Connor’s death is never expressly mentioned in the game series nor in extraneous content, so I didn’t have hard data for him. As a result, I looked up the common age that people usually lived to during that time and also factored in Haytham’s health at the age of 55. I chose 62 as the year he died at because it left a bit of ambiguity about it. He could have died of illness, in a fight, or simply from complications due to getting older. But I felt that, regardless, 62 years was a good choice to pick (the average lifespan during that time and place was about 45, and it seems that most Assassins far outlive their average lifespans if left to old age (maybe it’s something to do with a high amount of Precursor genes?). 
> 
> If Connor’s death is ever officially mentioned in the series in any way, I will amend this chapter to hold accurate material in it. And please, feel free to comment on that if his profile updates and point me toward the material the information can be found in!


	13. Some Scars Never Fade (Rated M)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This Chapter Rated M for content pertaining to abuse and suicide. If this triggers you PLEASE skip over to the author’s note at the end, as at the bottom of this chapter I will attach a short PG-13 summary of what I wrote to be read instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I REALLY AM SERIOUS ABOUT THIS ONE GUYS I DO A THIRD PERSON PERSPECTIVE FOR CLAY THAT BORDERS ON FIRST PERSON AND I GOT REALLY DISTURBED WITH THE MINDSET I HAD TO GET INTO TO WRITE THIS. DON'T READ IT IF YOU HAVE HAD SUICIDAL THOUGHTS, KNOW SOMEONE WHO HAS, ETC. IF IT TRIGGERS YOU STAY AWAY. I MADE A PG-13 SUMMARY FOR A REASON. I'll also be posting two chapters today so that you guys have something to read after this that's more temperate. Be safe, people.

_Truth. Rivalry. Gain. Requital. Revolution. Suicide. Abuse. _

_Altaïr. Ezio. Edward. Haytham. Connor. Clay. Desmond._

He was dimly aware of Sofia screaming at the technicians to pull him out of the Animus; wires were sparking and the lights had gone dim. Every now and then there was a flicker. Clay’s technological construct wavered uncertainly, weaving with nervous care in and out of the different work stations. For once he was helping the Abstergo employees, desperate to make sure that nothing happened to Desmond inside the machine. 

But he was too far in, and it was all collapsing together. 

_The bite of steel. The harshness of rock. The flick of the cutlass. The thrust of the blade. The sting of the bayonet. The dull, excruciating pain of the knife. The slice of the buckle. _

Everyone had scars, whether they were visible on skin or soul. But they were there, always. And they told a story. 

-/\\-

_Altaïr had been eleven years old when his father, Umar, had died. He had taken the place of Ahmad Sofian, Abbas’ father. The shame had driven the man to commit suicide, and had thrown the two orphaned sons together in a way that made certain of the fact that they would be a substantial part of one another for the rest of their lives. Al Mualim had counseled Altaïr never to speak of Ahmad’s true exit from the Brotherhood, especially never to Abbas. _

_If only he had listened. Altaïr reflected grimly on this regret as he was forced to desperately parry an unexpectedly hate-induced charge from Abbas. They had grown close as brothers, and it was because he knew how it felt to lose his own father that he had made the mistake of telling Abbas that his father had died. He’d thought it would bring closure, and eventually with that closure a bittersweet comfort. _

_Abbas swung the sword again - a real sword this time and not one of those wooden training sticks that they had always used prior to this lesson which had so quickly become a legitimate bout - and Altaïr rolled to dodge. His pleas to their instructor fell on deaf ears. Well, not deaf. But the man made it apparent that he thought Altaïr was overreacting when he’d shouted that Abbas was trying to kill him. Which he was. _

_«Say it!» Abbas shrieked. He swung the steel with an uncoordinated anger, but the flat side still managed to knock painfully against Altaïr’s knee. He yelped, the pain blossoming like sharp heat in the bone as he went to the ground. Tears were streaming freely down his face now, tears of pain certainly, but of a different kind than physical. He’d only been trying to help. He’d told the truth. Weren’t Assassins supposed to guard knowledge? And wasn’t knowledge in its purest form the truth?_

_Al Mualim had come out to observe them now, walking with slow purpose toward the training ring and weaving his way easily through the crowd that had gathered to watch. Most were entertained; very few were concerned. _

_«Say what!?» Altaïr wailed. He didn’t understand what was happening. _

_«Say you lied about my father! Say it!»_

_«But I didn’t!» He was sobbing now, recognizing that he’d lost the only person he had left that he considered in some way to be family because he’d made a mistake in judgement. «I wanted to help you!»_

_»Help me!? By telling me my father slit his own throat!? You’ve brought shame upon my name!» Abbas swung his sword again while Altaïr was scrambling up from the ground, and this time the sharp edge connected. Large drops of blood spattered across the sandy ground, and a sticky warm trail began traveling with great speed down his jaw and neck to stain his tunic. Altaïr screamed, and finally the bystanders seemed to realize that this wasn’t simply fraternal rivalry. _

_A few of the older Novices leapt the wooden guard fence separating them from the ring to restrain Abbas, who was literally spitting with fury and hatred. As for Altaïr, he was racked by choking sobs as he tasted his own blood in his mouth. It hurt too much to move his lips, and the deep slice that had been made over them ached with fire. He felt strong but ageing arms begin helping him to his feet, and knew without having to look that Al Mualim was there now. _

_«Say it,» Abbas growled. _

_«I lied,» Altaïr whimpered, hanging his head. The effort it took to form those words was too much, his mouth in too much pain, and he collapsed into gulping heaves in Al Mualim’s arms. They were strong, wiry arms. Warm but solid and unyielding, and the fading memory of his father Umar’s soft, comforting embrace hurt more than the cut ever could. But his conflicted golden eyes rose to meet Abbas’, and he knew that the other boy understood that he had spoken the truth. The hatred he saw there confirmed it._

_In the following months he spent alone in the dungeons to pay for the fighting, his wound healed into an apparent scar that would never fade from his face. Like Abbas’ actions, the blade had cut too deep. Altaïr had privately resolved never to let anyone in the way he had Abbas ever again. He had to guard his heart. _

_The rock flew through the dusk air thick with the smell of river water and human sewage, catching Ezio directly across the jaw. The stone clattered to the ground, a red stain on the sharp edge that had cut into his mouth. He stumbled backward in surprise, eyes narrowing to glare at the person who had thrown it. On the other side of the bridge stood the Pazzi supporters, with Vieri hefting another rock in his hand at the forefront. Ezio brought his fingers to the deep cut and tasted the metallic tang of his blood, wincing at the pain and involuntarily getting moist in the corners of his eyes in response to it. He fixed his sights on his rival and then took off at a run toward him with his own supporters in tow. The two young men - still only teenagers and therefore boys at heart - came together in a clash of fists and kicks. All of the rivalry that the Auditore and Pazzi families had for one another had erupted on the Ponte Vecchio that night, the dark waters of the Arno lapping hungrily at the stone supports below them. Such was their fury that the shop-owners had closed their stalls early to avoid being caught in the middle. _

_Ezio swung at Vieri’s head and missed, his breath coming out in a hiss on the undamaged side of his mouth before spitting the blood which had oozed inside onto the paving. Vieri smirked at this, dancing slightly to the left on overconfident toes. Ezio swung again and Vieri doubled up as his opponent’s fist connected with his abdomen. Ezio was about to deliver the decisive blow when he was set upon by a couple Pazzi supporters, and the two enemies were separated in the chaos of the fight. _

_They made eye contact during a brief respite, the hostility that their fathers had begun having carried over into the younger generation. In that moment Ezio felt a slight stirring of something... older. The animosity went deeper, far deeper, spanning several generations. Vieri’s expression indicated that he had sensed it as well. And Ezio was marked by it, the blood trickling down the underside of his jaw and then down his neck._

_Then Federico, Ezio’s elder brother, eased into the fight with all the grace of a war hammer and the brief moment was broken. It had been the first taste of the division between Assassin and Templar that Ezio had ever felt, whether he knew the reason behind it or not._

_Edward dodged a heavy-handed slice of what appeared to be a paring knife and skipped across the rain-lashed deck of his ship to get away from his over-eager opponent. His captain and mentor, Ed Thatch, was battling near the main mast. As the young privateer watched, the older man sliced his blade in a wide arc that left a red mist spinning off of the cold steel after it removed his enemy’s head from his shoulders. _

_Edward was caught up in momentary admiration for Thatch’s prowess and disgust at the gruesome display, but it ended quickly when the paring knife lunged for him again. It nicked a long opening across the middle of his cheek, deep but superficial. Edward stumbled, falling back on his left foot and only just avoiding the knife as it went to drive itself into his eye. He merely recieved more superficial damage instead; the thin and short blade flicking vertically to open a cut that started just below the eye and ended just above the eyebrow._

_Blood dripping into his vision, Edward gritted his teeth and grabbed up a secondary cutlass. One in each hand, he advanced upon his attacker. The man had the advantage of drawing first blood. Edward had the overriding advantage of insurmountable fury. He was determined to survive this war and return home to Caroline a self-made man, and nothing was going to deter him from doing so. _

_Haytham was still sore from the wound he had received some months back, but he knew he was grateful to even be alive. A thrust like that to the abdomen was a serious injury. The flesh had finally knit back together in a gruesome display, easily showing where he had been impaled on his own sword through the actions of a son protecting himself and his mother. It hadn’t been Haytham’s fault that the pair had been tortured while in Templar captivity, but he had been the one to deliver the boy into their hands. _

_He felt at his side and winced. It wasn’t the first wound he’d received and he doubted it would be the last, but it held another injury within it. His driver, Holden, had tended to him after the receival with the unerring loyalty and concern which had made him indispensable both as a companion in a fight and as a friend. He was gone now from the world, lost in a cause of Haytham’s own making. _

_He’d wanted to salvage what was left of his family. It had taken many years, and truthfully he still would have been looking if not for Holden’s tireless investigations, but he had found Jenny. His half-sister, who had been abducted the day their father had died. In rescuing her Holden had lost his manhood, something that had been too painful a shame for the younger man to bear. He had taken his own life shortly after Haytham had made a substantial enough recovery, faithful to the very last. _

_Haytham wished now that his father had never made the acquaintance of Birch. The man had destroyed his life, and the life of his family. With some bitterness Haytham reflected that he would have become an Assassin rather than a Templar had his father lived, and he wondered sometimes if he would have been the better for it. _

_Holden would still be alive, for one thing. And Birch would never have gotten possession of the journal for a second. Whenever the rains came and brought a certain damp with them Haytham’s abdomen wound would ache, bringing with it the memories of his mistakes afresh and rejuvenating the guilt he felt about having played a part in Holden’s death to some degree. Yes, he did wonder what his life would have been like without the likes of Birch. _

_Connor picked himself back off the ground, dark eyes glaring death at the bright red uniform directly before him. The tip of the rifleman’s musket glinted wetly where his blood still resided on the bayonet, and he felt the warm trickle make its way down his cheek and tickle his neck. He crept into the underbrush and vanished from view, silently vowing to himself. This man would pay. He had come into Kanien’kehá:ka territory with his unit and the intent to recruit the tribe to his cause, but they had changed their tune when they had seen that Connor’s people dealt fairly with Continental and British forces alike. Apparently, true neutrality was not an option. _

_Anger festering in his heart, Connor put aside the English half of him and embraced the mantle of Ratonhnaké:ton. He was his mother’s son, and Ziio’s devotion to her people resonated within him as well. He crouched low in the thicket, slowly drawing his bow and stringing an arrow. On the inhale he drew back his arm, took aim, and released on the exhale. It was coldly mechanical and practiced, the head striking the man with Connor’s blood on his bayonet squarely through the temple and driving itself deep through the skull. He sank to the ground with wide, empty eyes that stared into the brush that concealed his killer. The rest of the men panicked and began crashing through the foliage in search of their attacker, but Connor had already scaled the bark of a nearby tree with the nimbleness of a squirrel and was perching high above their heads on a sturdy branch that swayed slightly with each strong gust of wind. He readied his rope darts. Connor was fighting on behalf of the colonial revolutionaries not because he believed in their cause, but because he had a cause of his own. He hoped that aiding the Continental Army would ensure freedom and peace for his tribe, and thus these men had to die. They had attacked his people, and they fought against their own colonists. For that reason, and that reason alone, none would survive. _

_The cuts were small at first. Insubstantial. He needed time, and there was precious little of it once he dug in deep. Clay had timed the routine of Vidic and Lucy down to precise schedule, and he knew that the security monitoring the video feed from the Animus lab wouldn’t pay much attention to his antics. He had been writing on the walls and floors for weeks now. When they had taken his markers, he used pens. When they had taken his pens, he used pencil. When the pencil was gone he used his belt buckle to carve. But even that was gone now, and all he had left was the ball point pen he’d acquired when Vidic had carelessly left it on his desk. Out of ink, sure. But Clay had sharpened the point into Exacto-quality before they’d taken his razor away from him too. Minute cuts to the wrists provided ample ink for which to carry out his purpose, and he’d been careful to conceal where he was getting it from. _

_They assumed he was biting his thumbs and lips to draw blood, or using the material when he got an Animus-induced nosebleed. And he’d let them. Even helped sell the story by doing it on occasion. But the light scar tissue of criss-crossed lines on his lower arms told a different story. _

_His head hurt. He wanted it to end. _

_Some days he was Ezio. Others, more ancestors that he didn’t even know. But it was all collapsing. He was rarely himself anymore. The Bleeding Effect. _

_Abstergo hadn’t counted on it actually making him bleed. _

_Clay stepped back from the wall of his bedroom with a slight sigh of satisfaction. His work was completed. The message would be delivered. Someone else was coming. Minerva had spoken not to Clay through Ezio’s memories, but to him. Someone named Desmond. And Clay had recognized with a great degree of initial resentment that his destiny was not to save the world, but to help the one who would. _

_He stepped back out into the main lab space, carefully avoiding stepping into the crimson designs he’d painted across the floor there already. The tile was cool to his bare toes, a soothing coolness that helped calm his feverish mind. There was just one thing left to do. _

_Clay laid down in the Animus, set it to record his thoughts. He wanted to transfer _everything, _and thanks to his skills as an engineer and hobby of computer hacking - Erudito had long been interested in him though he’d declined their offer to join the Assassins - he knew exactly how to do it. _

_He thumbed the tip of the pen and had the satisfaction of feeling the pad of his index finger split open, the sweet release of his life force slowly dripping onto the bed of the Animus. Clay closed his eyes and breathed deeply. His mind swam. But he’d be free soon. Free from this body. From the constant pain of the migraines and the terror of slowly losing his mind. _

_The Animus had everything now. The door opened with a hiss, and Clay glanced up and backward slightly to see Lucy freeze in the entrance, her eyes going wide with recognition. Clay smiled, then raised the pen. _

_It bit into his left wrist, splitting open arteries and veins and rendering tendons useless. An intense flare of pain. The bliss as his blood began cascading. He was ebbing away. Flowing away. _

_Lucy began running toward him as if snapped out of her trance. Clay switched hands, the sharpened pen point carving up his palms as it did so. He did the same to his right wrist. _

_“Too late,” he murmured, vision blurring and then going dark altogether. “I’m free.” _

_Desmond sat in the snow of an unexpected March freeze and shivered. Barefoot, and in nothing but his boxers, the fifteen year old boy didn’t dare look up as his father crossed the compound toward him. His mother stood nearby, a worried look on her face. She’d never seen her husband so angry. _

_Desmond had made the mistake of leaving the compound to go fishing for the past few days in the nearby woods, thinking that it would be a nice surprise for his father. Maybe, if he could prove he was good at _something, _even fishing, his dad wouldn’t look at him like he was a disappointment. He’d made sure to tell his mother where he was going knowing that she would have worried and then set off with a hiking backpack full of supplies, a bedroll, and a tackle box. He’d made a decent haul, too. The fish were large and were of a type that had great flavor. _

_He’d arrived back at the compound apprehensively, having pushed his hope at approval deep down where it fluttered nonetheless. The other kids had fawned over the catch, no doubt excited to eat something that didn’t taste like cardboard for once, and the adults had enthusiastically observed him bring the brimming bucket in with cautious praise. His mother approved, but that had never been difficult. She was easy to impress. _

_And then he’d seen his father. The smile that had opened his mouth in a wide grin faltered and abruptly faded, dissolving like the last rays of weak sunshine on a cloudy winter evening. _

_Desmond kept his eyes glued to the muddy ground in front of him, his father’s boots kicking up slush as they stopped directly before him. He winced when he heard his father removing his belt. His insubordination was to be rewarded with a light lashing, and it was to be done where everyone could see it. There was no end to the public humiliation. _

_“Never, under any circumstances, are you to go off on your own without my approval,” Bill said softly. “Do you understand?” Desmond kept his mouth shut, lower lip quivering as he took in a shaky breath. Bill drew back and let the belt go. It arched across Desmond’s bare shoulders and he clenched his teeth, hands balling into tight fists so badly that his nails drew blood from his palms. Involuntary tears of pain began streaming down his face, and he let out his breath in a hiss. But he refused to cry out, because then his dad would chastise him for being weak and tell him to ‘take it like a man.’ So he was determined to suffer in silence. _

_The belt flashed three more times. Bill always did five. He drew back for the last one and dropped it. Picking it back up he wound back and let fly, realizing too late that he was holding on to the wrong end. His sharp intake of breath made Desmond look up at just the wrong moment, and the movement of his neck and shoulders caused the buckle to miss his back entirely. The belt itself wrapped across the back of his neck, and the buckle swung around to slam into his mouth. Bill let go as if the belt had burned him as the blood speckled the snow, and felt his heart catch in his throat when Desmond brought his fingers up to touch the cut across his mouth and let out the slightest of whimpers. _

_Desmond dropped his hands into the dirty snow, breathing shakily. Something buried deep within him snapped, something he’d never felt before. But it was a vaguely familiar sensation for some reason, and he knew instantly what it was. _

_He’d decided his self-worth was better than how he was being treated. He was better than that. _

_“Son...” Bill murmured quietly, uncertainly. Desmond slowly looked up at him, golden eyes burning with resentment. _

_“I’m not your son,” he retorted sourly, standing in nothing but his cold and soggy underwear. The slush squelched between his toes. He hadn’t been given permission to stand, nor to leave. But he stood nonetheless and began walking back toward their house. He needed a first aid kit and a long, hot shower. There was still the prevailing instinct inside of him that had been brought closer to the surface than it ever had been before, and Bill laid a restraining hand on Desmond’s slightly bloody shoulder. _

_Instantly he grabbed his father’s arm about the elbow and wrist, spun, and pulled. He let go precisely when he was supposed to and slid with a grace that did not belong to him but rather something ancient under his father’s reach; their was a grunt of pain that sounded either as if something had been sprained or dislocated, but Desmond was too angry to check. He stalked back to their house as noiselessly as a cat and headed straight for the bathroom to get himself fixed up. Once inside he’d allowed himself to relax; the bathroom door was locked and he’d taken the key in with him. No one was coming in unless he wanted them to. _

_Peroxide, ibuprofen, gauze, and medical tape. Desmond laid all of it out and then stepped into the shower. He sat on the floor of the tub and allowed himself to cry, the hot water searing his bruised up back but in a way that felt like good pain. _

_Later on there was a knock at the door._

_“Desmond?” It was his mom. “Is it okay if I come in?” There was a pause. “Your dad went to the infirmary. You sprained his wrist. He won’t be coming back until much later tonight.” _

_Desmond got up out of the water and turned it off, towelled himself dry, and put on a clean pair of underwear and loose pajama pants before unlocking the door. Steam poured out into the hallway simultaneously with an inrush of cooler, drier air. His mom stared at him with a worried expression. They both knew the routine; he sat on the edge of the tub while she cleaned and bandaged the few cuts on his back. Bill had good aim, and he was careful not to draw blood if he didn’t have to but no one was perfect. He then popped the pain meds, and she inspected his face with a frown. He ended up having dissolvable stitches put in to aid in the healing process, but they both knew it was going to scar. _

_Five days later, on his birthday, Desmond woke up a few hours before his alarm was supposed to go off at sunrise. It was still excessively dark outside, and he was packing his few belongings in his backpack and slinging it over his sore shoulders before he’d even realized he had decided to leave. It was like his feet were moving of their own volition, carrying him out of the house, across the compound, and to the wall. _

_The gate was shut, but he used the climbing skills he’d been taught and hoisted himself over the wall, vaulting off the top and landing in a well-practiced roll on the other side. He was done._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PG-13 Summarization  
If you decided not to read the chapter in its entirety, here is the short version. If you did, then you don’t need to read this. 
> 
> To begin with, Desmond is back in the Animus. For (as yet unknown to you, the reader) undisclosed reasons the Animus has had a major issue. Desmond, still inside the machine, is being forced to relive certain traumatic memories that are his, Clay’s, and his ancestors’. 
> 
> To begin with, Altaïr is young. Early teens. He gets in a fight with Abbas whilst training, and Abbas is angry that Altaïr told him his father Ahmad committed suicide (because he was ashamed that his betrayal had led to the death of Umar, Altaïr’s father). They battle with real swords for once, and in the process Abbas nicks Altaïr’s lip, giving him his scar. I took creative embellishment of content from The Secret Crusade novel. 
> 
> Secondly, I revisited Ezio’s fight with Vieri at the beginning of AC:II in which the rock hits him in the jaw and gives him his scar. All I did was embellish it with a little more personalized detail. 
> 
> Thirdly, I turn to Edward. In this we see a young privateer (before his pirate days) desperate to become a man of quality and return to Bristol and his wife Caroline with money. In a fight where they boarded an enemy frigate, he gets cut along his right cheek and lightly slit vertically over his right eye, thus giving him his scars. 
> 
> Fourthly, I turned to Haytham. This delves mainly with content read in Forsaken, one of the novels by Oliver Bowden. In the book he witnesses his father Edward die at the hands of his confidante, a man named Birch. Birch goes on to train Haytham in the Templar Order and is responsible for organizing the raid on the Kenway estate that night. During the raid Haytham’s elder half sister Jenny is abducted, and we spend much of the book searching for her as a secondary objective. Haytham has a driver, a younger gentleman named Holden, who he values as an extremely close friend. In the process of finding, then rescuing Jenny from her captors, Holden is castrated by eunuchs. A battle ensues soon after, in which Haytham and Jenny exact vengeance on Birch for ruining their lives. Through related circumstances Haytham is seriously injured, stabbed in the stomach. Holden nurses him back to health and then, certain his friend will live, he takes his own life unable to live with the shame of losing his manhood. My looking into Haytham is largely him reflecting on these events with deep regret, missing his friend badly. 
> 
> Fifthly, I move on to Connor. In this he is protecting his village from some British soldiers and nursing a particular grudge for a bayonet of one of the men that gave him the cut on his cheek. 
> 
> Sixthly, I go into Clay and his suicide as I picture it to have happened. It is based partially on in-game dialogue and author conjecture. This is one of the reasons this chapter is rated M, because the imagery can at times be quite vivid and disturbing. 
> 
> Lastly, I alight on Desmond a few days before his 16th birthday, when he ran away from home and left the Assassins behind. His interactions with his father in AC:III gave me the impression that Bill was physically abusive of his son (and possibly his wife, though I don’t go so far as to insinuate as such in this book). So I wrote about what I personally picture the last straw to be, which is in this case a beating that accidentally gave Desmond his lip scar. He would leave shortly after. This is the other reason that this chapter is rated M.


	14. We're All Mad Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second chapter for this double update to temper the emotional blow and content of the one immediately preceding it. Sorry for hurting our Assassin Cinnamon Rolls that way.

The Animus wound down with a _whir_, the noise being that of overheating machinery. Desmond knew that through Clay’s memories. 

Clay himself shimmered in front of where he was crouching with his legs crumpled underneath him, elbows braced on the cool ancient stone, forehead pressed against the floor. He was hyperventilating, body racked by the trembling of adrenaline and dry heaves. Desmond was, for once, glad they never let him eat beforehand. 

“Disconnect him,” Sofia was barking urgently. She had the sense to do so in a quiet and somewhat soothing manner though, to help keep him calm. 

“Clay,” Desmond choked. He needed someone who understood. Clay knelt back on his holographic heels and sighed, running substanceless fingers gently through Desmond’s short and unkempt hair. Sofia held up a hand to stop them from disconnecting him for the time being.

“Sorry you had to experience that,” Clay murmured. He was talking about his suicide. “If I’d have known the Animus would keep on recording while I- Well, I’d have turned it off.” Desmond let out the tiniest of whimpers and Clay very carefully started rubbing his bare back in places that the machine hadn’t dug into, which meant avoiding the spine. He concentrated on the shoulders and just below them. “Sorry cuz. Really I am. That wasn’t fair on you. Your ancestors had a time too, didn’t they?” 

“Ho avuto un tempo,” Desmond mumbled shakily. It was a 50-50 shot as to whether he was lucid or not.

“Fair dues.” Clay was concerned now. “Hey, Doc. What happened with the Animus?” Sofia swallowed uncomfortably. 

“We were trying to extrapolate the extraneous memories of Desmond’s ancestors, and ...your own as well,” she explained. “The Animus overheated. There was too much data to sift through.” 

“You _what!?_” Clay was furious, which was saying something for a computer program. “Are you _trying _to get him killed!?” He rose from the ground in one fluid movement and had begun advancing toward her when Desmond called him back with a scared, small voice. 

“Clay? Clay.” Clay looked between his distant cousin and Sofia, who had backed away with wide eyes when he’d started walking toward her. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, shooting her a glare as he returned to Desmond’s side. If looks could kill, the entire room would have been burnt to cinders. 

“Can we have the room please?” Clay asked. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor now, doing his best as a non-corporeal entity to help his long lost cousin. “And if somebody could get Charlie that would be great.” Sofia nodded; the technicians and orderlies began to disperse. She lingered until Jack had arrived with Charlie in tow, and then left. 

Charlie took one look at Desmond and raced over. 

“Why haven’t they pulled you out yet??” He asked, agitated and confused. Suddenly he seemed to become aware of Clay hovering uncertainly nearby, eyes going wide. “What the-”

“I’m a distant relation,” Clay muttered uncomfortably. “Subject 16 from the old Animus Project, just before Des. I uh, I uploaded my memories and consciousness into the Animus memory core just before I committed suicide. When they put Desmond in I copied myself into his limbic system. So whenever he hooks up to an Animus I’m there.”

“You look after him then?” Charlie asked. He still seemed weirded out. 

“Yeah. I do my best to make sure the Animus runs properly without frying his brain. Go snooping where I shouldn’t and come back with juicy information that he finds helpful.” 

Charlie had gathered Desmond in his arms and laid his head on his legs, where he was staring up at the ceiling with a partially glazed look and dilated pupils. He was still trembling all over, not yet recovered from the shock the machine had induced. 

“He’s lucky he isn’t having a massive stroke and seizure simultaneously right now,” Charlie sighed. “I guess that was your doing.”

“I hacked into the coding and put the Animus in lockdown mode.” Clay quickly explained what Sofia had been attempting to do, Charlie’s face contorting and discoloring with anger. 

“I’m pretty sure he’s still seeing those things over and over again at the moment,” Clay finished with a sigh. “It only lasted about forty-five seconds, but inside the Animus...”

“...It went on for hours.” Charlie gently stroked his friend’s hair, Desmond slowly beginning to relax and come out of his panic attack. He’d stopped hyperventilating at least, the shakes turning into slight tremors. His gaze focused on Clay and he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. Clay nodded back, turning to Charlie. 

“Disconnect him from the Animus,” he instructed. “He’s stabilized enough, and besides; he’s got you. He doesn’t need me anymore.” There was an underlying note of bitterness and frustration in that parting statement, but before Charlie could respond he had evaporated into thin air. 

-/\\-

“Do you want to talk about it?” The counselor asked. Desmond hung his head, staring blankly at the floor. He hadn’t spoken a word since he’d woken up two days after the incident, in his bed. They’d left his hidden blades on, and Charlie was camped out on his floor in a sleeping bag and nest of blankets. He’d looked up hopefully when he saw Desmond was awake, smiling wide. 

“Hey man. How you doing?” His smile had gradually faded the longer Desmond continued to stare at him with wide, haunted eyes. “Um... Des?”

“Ibn-La’Ahad.” The counselor tapped him gently on the knee. Desmond snapped up, golden eyes sharp and wild. They swept over his surroundings with an efficiency that was disturbing, a focus that was out of character. 

“What happened in the Animus?” 

“...” 

“Okay,” the counselor sighed. He seemed resigned. “We’ll try again tomorrow.” 

Once out of the session Desmond managed to slip away from his tail; Jack had been accompanying him for the better part of 36 hours without rest and Sofia had finally made him go take a nap. She’d noticed that Desmond responded better to him than he did other orderlies, but it remained a mystery as to why. As a result, he’d been given an orderly that didn’t know him as a stand-in until Jack was rested. And it was just the opportunity Desmond had needed. 

The experience hadn’t just been disturbing. The way in which it had happened had been extremely violent; he would be thrown into one memory and then ripped out of it and dumped into the next without any smooth transition. The emotions he’d felt in the memories were high and confused, most of them negative, and the ones that were happy had that unhinged mentally unstable quality about them. 

He’d never been through anything that intense or unsettling before, not even with the old Animus and Bleeding Effect. There was a reason he hadn’t spoken a word since he’d got out of it, and that was because his brain was a mess. The little voice in his head that everyone had was speaking in a multitude of different languages, selecting them from the vast plethora his ancestors had managed to accumulate over the years. The thoughts were disjointed, sometimes beginning in one language and changing over to another five or six times before it came to its end. And he’d noticed that it depended on content, too. The style of the thought tended to choose which language it was thought in; anything waxing remotely philosophical ended in one of Altaïr’s tongues, anything rebellious in one of Edward’s, etc, etc, etc. And yet, English was not one of the available languages. Modern English, anyways. It was almost as if it had been erased from the hard drive, which terrified him. What else had he lost? 

So he remained silent, because he worried that what he said would come out the same way. And a part of him hoped that, whatever was wrong with him, it would resolve itself. But again was that fear that if it happened aloud he would never be able to fix it. 

“Desmond?” He turned to see who had spoken, the voice at once achingly familiar and one he had never heard before. But there was no one there; he was alone in the hallway. Desmond began walking again, feet shuffling softly along the floor as he made his way to his room. 

«Be at peace, and know that I am with you.» His was a voice quiet and reserved, mournful, it seemed, of what Desmond had been put through. Had his brain not been so scrambled at the moment, he might have been able to place the language. But he couldn’t. 

There was a tray at the end of his bed with some fancy food on it, and- oddly enough- a glass of champagne. He ignored both and set the tray next to the door, then climbed into bed and pulled the covers over his head fully clothed. 

«I am with you.» There was the quietest of sighs afterward, and Desmond dropped off to sleep almost immediately. He couldn’t place why, but that voice made him feel safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ho avuto un tempo - Italian; I had a time


	15. Taste the Rainbow

“He hasn’t spoken a word since the incident.” Sofia was pacing the room back and forth, and it didn’t take the keen gaze of her father from where he sat behind his desk to notice. “He hasn’t eaten, he rarely leaves his room. He’ll spend hours just staring at the ceiling.”

“Is there anything else about his behavior that concerns you?” Alan asked quietly, glancing up briefly from the paper he was reading. Sofia sighed. 

“He hasn’t once made an effort to even _leave _his room of his own volition. We’ve _required _him to, for counseling appointments. But that’s about it. He seems to have made friends with Charlie-”

“Who?” 

“Shahin Parviz’ descendant.”

“...Ah. Yes. Continue.”

“As I was saying, they’re friends. We’ve let Charlie accompany Desmond to just about anything he’s done this past week, and Desmond will open his mouth to say something, but he then seems to think better of it.” Sofia flopped down in the chair. “I don’t know what else to do. And if we want that information pertaining to Ezio’s later years, we need him. Without those keys we can’t access Altaïr’s library.” 

“I am well aware of what we need from our patients,” Alan said meaningfully in a tone his daughter knew well. She winced. “I recommend you let Desmond be for the next week. Require him to leave his room, but cancel any appointments either with his counselor or his therapist. This seems to be something that he will have to work out by himself, and no amount of urging on our part will make him do so before he is ready.” Sofia hung her head slightly.

“Yes, father.”

-/\\-

Despite what most people thought, Desmond was actually doing pretty well. Sure, he wasn’t on speaking terms with - well. Anyone - but he’d managed to get his thoughts back in order. ...reasonably. He was still missing modern English from his vocabulary but his thoughts were no longer disjointed. If one began in a particular language that language stayed with the line of thought to its conclusion. And he’d been doing some thinking. A _lot _of thinking. 

The voice hadn’t come to him again since that first day of consciousness after the incident. Its absence had only made him more determined to figure out who it belonged to, but to no avail. And now he was being forced out of his room during the better part of the day, which wasn’t a good thing. The noise of other Subjects going about their routine was a distraction he couldn’t afford. Not now, when he was so close to sorting everything back together. 

So he found himself a spot in the commons, a nice reasonably wide yet thin column with some bolts embedded in it, and vaulted himself into the exposed ceiling support beams far above. Once there he crouched, sitting back on his heels and leaning slightly over to look down into the space below with his fingers hooked over and under the edge. Many people were staring up at him with either approving awe or Assassin pride, the orderlies simply dumbfounded. Desmond spotted Jack amongst them with his mouth hanging open. 

Once on his perch he laid back and stretched out with his bad arm draped across his chest and his good hanging down in the air. Then he closed his eyes and enjoyed the solitude which allowed him to slowly put his mind back in proper working order. 

Desmond, after about an hour or so in this position, slowly became aware that he was being watched. Not in the sense that there were people below waiting to see if he’d tumble to his death or not, but in the sense that they were leaning over him. He opened his eyes to the merest of slits and regarded the teenage girl whose nose was just inches from his own. She flashed him a disarming smile, the corners of her very blue eyes crinkling ever so slightly. Both of their faces were closed from the rest of the world behind a hanging curtain of light brown hair with natural glinting golden highlights; her face appearing to him to be upside down.

“Hi,” she said. It was so utterly disarming that Desmond, who had been instinctually poised to knock her off the beam for invading personal space, instantly relaxed. He blinked in response. “I’m Avery. And you are?” Desmond swallowed uncomfortably, and she fell back into a sitting position from where she had been leaning forward behind his head. He carefully sat up and repositioned himself so that he was facing her, a cold feeling settling in his chest when he saw that she couldn’t have been more than 15 years old at the most. But her eyes were bright and curious, and she did not seem all that upset by her current predicament. She was still smiling now.

“Avery,” she repeated. “That’s me. And you are?” Desmond opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. His mind was saying ‘_My name is Desmond’ _in about every language he knew, except English. He couldn’t even get ‘Desmond’ to come out right; the consonant would begin to form and then die away on his lips. He sighed heavily and shrugged his shoulders. It was only when he looked for her reaction that he found she had been chattering away without waiting for an answer. 

“-And I’ve been here a while but most people call me ‘baby girl’ and I don’t like that.” Avery stopped long enough to breathe and settle her gaze on him. 

“You don’t talk much, do you?” Desmond slowly shook his head from side to side, the faintest of smirks shadowing his features. He really liked this girl. She reminded him of Claudia, Petruccio. Kadar, in a way. 

“Desmond.” Avery blinked.

“Sorry?” 

“My name. It’s Desmond.” He heard the words coming out in the right way, in modern English, before registering that he was the one speaking them. It was like a switch had flipped, and while it surprised him he was curious as to whether it was permanent or not. 

He crossed one leg over the other, leaving a foot dangling into nothingness and feeling better than he had in a long while as he made himself more comfortable. He was also aware that he was starving; his stomach wasn’t shy about making itself heard. 

“Skittle?” Avery asked. There wasn’t a hint of judgement in her voice. 

“Yes please.” She chucked an entire package of them over at his face and he scrambled to catch it before it broke his nose. “Thanks. I haven’t had these things in forever.” 

Desmond succeeded in opening the wrapping and she held hers out for a toast. He arched an eyebrow and they knocked pouches. 

“Cheers.” 

“Cheers.” 

For a long while the pair of them sat side by side in silence, gazing down with relative interest at the space below them. 

“I didn’t realize other people liked this spot too,” Avery said after a time. Desmond shrugged, popping a yellow one in his mouth and instantly regretting that he hadn’t let it accompany a red or purple. 

“I just kind of found it today, actually. Seemed like a great spot to think without being interrupted.” Avery shyly began swinging her feet back and forth.

“Oh.” Her voice was all guilt. “Sorry. I wouldn’t have bothered you if-”

“Nah, it’s okay. Tell me a bit about yourself? I’ll tell you my tragic backstory if you tell me yours.” 

“Deal.” She chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully for a few moments. “Well, to begin with I’m 14 years old and I’ve been in this place since I was 11. I had a loving mom, dad, and grandpa who lived with the three of us, and they probably all think I’m dead by now. And since everyone _always _asks, yes, Abstergo kidnaps children. And yes, it was a white van on the street corner while I was walking home from school. It’s easier to kidnap an 11 year old girl than it is her ex-Navy SEAL mother I guess.” There was a deep inhale of breath. “And I’m here because of my 19th Century Austrian ancestor named Mira Haas, who was a traitor to the Assassin Brotherhood. They kidnapped me so that I could connect with my ancestor, and then I do and I find out that I hate her guts. But that’s life. You?”

Desmond blinked, unsure how to respond to all of that. He scratched self-consciously behind an ear before deciding to address it at a different time. Maybe later that day, maybe later that month. There might never actually _be _a good time to talk about it. He wasn’t sure about much else in his life at the moment, but there was definitely a part of him that was saying ‘_baby sister. Breathe the wrong way in her presence and I will peel the skin from your bones. No one touches baby sister. Mine._’ He shook himself slightly to focus back on the topic at hand. 

“Um... well, around here people call me Ibn-La’Ahad after my ancest-”

“Altaïr?” Avery’s eyes had gone wide. “Oh... you’re _that _new guy.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Never mind. I already know all about _your _backstory.”

Desmond blinked again while she popped two or three Skittles into her mouth. 

“...Thank you?” 


	16. The Best Worst B-Day Ever

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY DESMOND!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Desmond’s eyes flew open just in time to see Avery launch herself into the air before slamming on top of his body with painful impact. Charlie was laughing his head off from the doorway, literal tears streaming down his face as he struggled to breathe. When at last Desmond was able to lift his face out of his pillow - he was pretty sure there would be a permanent indentation there so precise they would be able to make molds out of it - it was to see Avery sitting cross-legged at the end of his bed on top of his feet. 

They’d all gotten to know each other pretty well over the past month and a half, but time really flew when you were in captivity trying to find enough hours in the day to escape. Charlie had become just as indispensable a friend as Rebecca and Shaun, and Avery... well, Desmond was toying with the idea of having his dad sign adoption papers at gunpoint if that was what it took for him to do it. He loved the kid; jittery, annoying, optimistic, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, he loved everything about her in much the same way Ezio had loved Claudia, even if they drove each other crazy most of the time. It made Desmond wonder if it was transference. In lieu of an actual Claudia, an Avery would suffice. 

“Ow!” Desmond yelped as Avery began hopping up and down at the end of the bed, landing each time on his feet which were positioned at an odd angle. She grinned and unfolded her crossed legs before sliding onto the floor. 

“So?” She asked excitedly. Desmond paused in rubbing his temples to glance at her. 

“So what?” He countered with a yawn. She rolled her eyes. 

“So how old are you today?” 

“Over 21.” 

“Cute,” Charlie muttered sarcastically with a grin. He was still standing in the doorway and it looked as if he wouldn’t be moving any time soon. He began thumbing through a file that, Desmond realized to his own horror, was his. 

“W-where did you get that?” 

“Little birdie might have not been paying attention when I palmed it from chores sorting the archives.” Charlie paused to glance briefly upward and waggle his eyebrows mischievously. Avery wandered over to stand on her tiptoes and peer over his shoulder. “Now let’s see... Born March 13th, 1987. And if today is March 13th, 2016, then that makes you...”

“Twenty-nine,” Avery chirped with a smile, rocking on her feet from her toes to her heels and back and forth. “Wow. You’re _old_.” Charlie snorted. Desmond fixed them both with a withering glare and flopped back into his pillow, face sliding perfectly into the dent it had made earlier. 

“What are you doing?” Charlie asked amusedly. 

“We old people need our sleep,” Desmond retorted drily. His response was muffled by the pillow. 

“Oh no you don’t.” Avery grabbed his arm and yanked him out of the bed. He yelped as the blankets went with him. “We have things to do! This is no time to be asleep!” 

“What time even _is _it?” Desmond mumbled. Charlie and Avery exchanged a glance. 

“Maybe around 4:30?” 

“In the _morning!?_” 

“I _told _you he wouldn’t be happy about that,” Charlie whispered to his young accomplice. 

“The early bird gets the worm,” Avery quoted unapologetically.

“Second mouse gets the cheese,” Desmond retorted, channeling Malik sass which Altaïr had acquired and passed on to him.

“I’m fed up with both of you so let’s get moving,” Charlie sighed. He grabbed them by the ear, one in each hand, and started walking. He smirked the entire time they yelped and struggled in protest. 

-/\\- 

“A little birdie told me it’s your birthday today,” Mavis remarked casually as she went through the motions of what felt to Desmond like she was dislocating his shoulders. 

“...Mm.” 

“Oh, come on. Lighten up a little.” They both winced as a loud _crack_ resonated through the room. “Okay, that’s my bad.” 

“Exactly what I want to hear from my PT,” Desmond muttered through gritted teeth. Mavis smacked the back of his head, but gently, so as to avoid his teeth slicing into his lip while he was face down on the table. “Ow.”

“Take it like a man.” She was met with frozen, stony silence and she frowned. He always had to have the last word, and that wasn’t like him. “Cat got your tongue?”

“‘Take it like a man,’” Desmond repeated hollowly. “My dad used to say that to me. Just before he took a belt to my bare back for insubordination.” It was Mavis’ turn to be at a loss for words. She glanced down at his exposed shoulders and inhaled sharply; she’d seen the faint scar tissue before but had always assumed it had been from his brief time spent as an active field Assassin. She resumed her deep tissue massage in a more somber mood before somewhat reluctantly applying the acupuncture needles and wincing every time Desmond let slip a little noise or movement of pained displeasure. 

“I don’t _like _to do this to you,” Mavis murmured awkwardly. There was a short, contemplative silence. “...Anymore.” 

“I’m flattered.” 

“You seem to be doing better.” 

“I am.”

“Still thinking in other languages?”

“Yeah, I mean- it doesn’t bother me anymore now. I’ve gotten used to it.” 

“Is that a good thing?” Mavis had finished with the acupuncture needles and had taken up residence on a low stool just in front of his head. Desmond folded his arms underneath his raised chin and dropped it to rest atop them so that they could see each other. 

“I’m not all that worried. It might just be another thing that comes with having all of my ancestors’ memories jammed in my brain.”

“I would be concerned about being comfortable with that entire situation at all if I were you.” Desmond shrugged, wincing as all of the needles in his upper back shivered with the movement. 

“I feel better than I have in a long while,” he assured her good-naturedly. “No more migraines, no more involuntary hallucinations from the Bleeding Effect, and I’ve got purpose. Never had that before. For the longest time I was just keeping on for the sake of keeping on, too afraid of being found by Assassins and Templars alike that all I did was hide. That wasn’t living. That was surviving. Connecting with my ancestors brought me back where I belonged and made my life _mean _something.” 

“You really _are_ comfortable with all this, aren’t you?” Mavis murmured, gazing at him over her glasses with a quiet dawning respect that went unnoticed by her patient. Desmond was busy reading her handwriting upside down. He shrugged again, the needles quivering, and winced once more. 

“Mm. I suppose...” his gaze was far away. Mavis waited patiently for him to say something, scribbling in her notebook about things pertaining to one of her other patients. 

“Mavis?” 

“What is it, Desmond?” 

“Do you think I’m... different?” There was a snort of suppressed laughter. 

“You are one of a kind.” Desmond rolled his eyes with mild exasperation. 

“No, I mean-” Desmond swallowed hard. He hadn’t spoken about his suspicions to anyone. “My recovery. It’s going a lot better than expected.” A pause in which the sound of Mavis’ pen on the paper faltered in its scratching. “Like, way better. Almost as if I were...”

“...Were what?” Mavis prompted uneasily. 

“Nothing. Never mind.” 

“Desmond.” 

“Rikkin senior might have mentioned something about my not being... completely human when he spoke with me,” Desmond admitted with a sigh. Mavis’ eyes sharpened with interest, and she put down her notebook. 

“Really?” 

“Yeah.” 

“What on Earth would ever make him say that? What else are you supposed to be? An _alien?” _

“Precursor.” 

_“...Oh...” _Desmond scratched awkwardly behind an ear, ignoring the pain from the acupuncture needles. 

“I was wondering if you could- you know, while you’re looking for other stuff obviously- maybe do some digging? About me, about research they’ve possibly been doing into the difference between Precursor and human DNA?”

“If I get the opportunity... I will,” Mavis said quietly. 

“Thanks.” 

-/\\- 

It was probably the best birthday Desmond had had since he was nine. He was sitting in the commons with Charlie, Avery, and a few other inmates he’d gotten to know over the last month over a bottle of sparkling white grape juice (no alcohol for the homicidal natives) just chilling; this was a place where he felt like he was understood by everyone there and as such could feel safe. That place wasn’t Abstergo - God forbid - but it was this tiny group of people who didn’t have to ask how he was doing because they already knew. It was a relaxing place to be, if not necessarily somewhere that could truly be considered happy, and after the stress Desmond had dealt with in the last few weeks he would take what he could get.

...He just wished that some other people could be there.

-/\\- 

_“Can I get a Shirley Temple with a shot of gin?” Shaun asked somberly. _

_“Sure thing.” _

_“I’ll have what he’s having.” Shaun took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes as Rebecca took a seat at the bar beside him. _

_“Hey Becs.” _

_“I’m surprised to find you in a dive like this,” she commented as the bartender rustled about. “You threw a fit last time I tried to drag you to one of these. Said it wasn’t a proper pub.” _

_“Yeah, well- thank you.” Shaun stared into his drink without really looking at it once he’d received it. “I felt like he’d approve of the locale.” Rebecca nodded sadly in understanding. She raised her glass and Shaun knocked it against his._

_“Cheers.”_

_“Cheers.” _

_They both took a sip of their Shirley Templars and had a moment of silence._


	17. Everglow

_“Dig a tunnel dig dig a tunnel_

_Dig a tunnel gonna dig a bigger tunnel_

_Dig a tunnel dig dig a tunnel_

_Quick before the Hyena comes...”_

“I hate you all,” Desmond groaned. Avery and Charlie stopped singing long enough to cackle mischieviously. 

“Whoever is singing _Lion King 1 1/2 _needs to shut up!” Forester snapped irritably. “Templars have ears like bats around here.”

“Are we going to keep digging, or not?” Desmond asked. Moussa leaned on his pickaxe.

“I could sing ‘Swing Low Sweet Chariot’ if it would set the tune better.” Desmond shot him a withering glance and he smiled. “Back to work, everyone.” 

Avery and Charlie exchanged an evil smirk. 

_“Hey I’m a dwarf and I’m digging a hole_

_Diggy diggy hole_

_Diggy hole_

_Hey I’m a dwarf and I’m dig-”_

“If you _must _sing go back to the first one!” Forester growled, driving his pick deep into the rubble. 

“What? You don’t like Yogscast?” Charlie tutted. 

“What even-”

“YouTube Gaming channel.” 

“You’re impossible,” Desmond muttered. He flicked into Eagle Vision and swept about the collapsed tunnel. Two of the columns glowed bright red, and one of the walls golden. “Need to reinforce these trusts and knock out that wall if we want to get on with this operation.” 

Avery, face covered in stucco dust and old mortar, came skipping up to him. 

“What’s this for anyway?” 

“Yeah. I’ve heard a bunch of vague half-truths but no concrete answers.” Charlie’s voice filtered over to them from where he was shuffling about in the dust. “Fill us in?”

“This passage, once dug out, connects up with a warren of other tunnels underneath the old fortress.” There was a meaningful pause. “We Assassins build things to last and we build them to ward against siege. There must be seven or eight sealed chambers down here with weapons, armor, you name it, maybe even some old texts that have been lost to us for ages. Either way, these things have secret entrances situated all throughout the old complex. If we can find them then we can begin working on making a map, and...?”

“Have our own special network for avoiding orderlies and moving suspect equipment,” Moussa finished with an approving smile. “I like it. We’ll be more than prepared to escape, and we can take our time with it to make sure we do it right.” 

“Exactly.” 

“We’d better scram before the po-po get suspicious,” Charlie grunted as he stood back up on stiff muscles. “This _is _part of their renovations in the wing, after all. If we’re gone too long from the main party the jig’s up.” 

“Charlie’s right for once,” Forester laughed. He’d finally begun allowing them to call him Luke again. “We can _pick _this up another day.” There was a collective groan. The little troupe gathered their tools and crept back toward the main work site, where several other Subjects were busily digging away with watchful security and orderlies. Desmond managed to catch Jack’s eye and gave the tiniest of nods. The other man caught the signal and started in with the distraction that would allow them to slip back in without being noticed by their taskmasters. 

He still hadn’t told anyone else about Erudito’s infiltration. Desmond felt a bit guilty about that, but the less people who knew the less risk there was of discovery. It was for the best. 

The area they were excavating in was purposefully on a lower floor but far from the sub-levels, and it was difficult to do anything that could lead to escape. Abstergo knew exactly who their charges were, and that the fortress had once belonged to their people. They hadn’t reckoned on having help from the inside though, and that was one of the reasons he wanted to safeguard the Erudito mission. Their assistance was invaluable.

Desmond hefted the pickaxe high onto his shoulder and gave a calculated swing, driving the point deep into the floor. The sharp spike buried itself in the old stone and spider cracks appeared all around it. One or two more whacks and the large tile would be rubble. As he worked he reflected on the fact that Abstergo had probably done him a favor. He was in the best shape of his life and getting better every day both mentally and physically, and he’d found some _very _willing Assassin recruits to bring back to the Order when he eventually escaped. Abstergo had shot themselves in the foot, literally arming their enemies against them by Animus training descendants of past Assassins as a symptom of the Bleeding Effect. To the part of him that Desmond had begun to recognize as Ezio, it felt like poetic justice that left him oddly satisfied when experiencing it. They had sown the seeds of their own destruction and harvest was almost due. 

Desmond swung his pick again and felt the shockwave travel through the handle and jostle painfully through his arms as the point shattered on impact. It made a dull echoing noise, and he staggered backward before dropping his tool and staring at the floor. 

The paving he had been hacking away at split to reveal dull, smooth stone underneath. Desmond simply stared at it for a few moments, dumbfounded. He hadn’t - well, _Ezio_ hadn’t - been aware that the Andalucia stronghold contained a vault underneath it. He suddenly wondered if the Templars did and cast a cursory glance about the place before kicking as much masonry dust as possible across the surface to cover it. Then he quietly informed Moussa, and within a few short minutes the entire crew was aware. They were careful to avoid going too deep into the floor, and when they came upon the roof of the vault they kicked more dust on top of it. It wasn’t long before they’d established the perimeter. Desmond only hoped that the vault wasn’t the reason for Abstergo’s latest renovation project. 

-/\\-

It was late when they crept their way back to the site, Desmond being particularly tight-lipped about how he had managed access without prying eyes. He and Charlie were careful not to disturb the fine layer of sandy gravel covering the smooth stone as they walked in the darkness, both utilizing Eagle Vision to make sure they didn’t run into anything. At least, Desmond had _thought _that was what Charlie was doing until he stumbled. 

“How can you _see _in this place?” He whispered complainingly. “It’s blacker than my sense of humor.” 

“Eagle Vision?” Desmond whispered back uncertainly. Charlie, illumined as a shimmering blue figure at his side, was staring at him with wide eyes. It was so much easier to see with EV in the pitch blackness. There was a short period of silence. 

“I. Am. An. _Idiot._”

“Normally I’d argue against that, but...” 

“Shut up.” 

The pair resumed their illicit activity, silent as panthers over the crackling rubble. Finally Desmond stopped at the wall he’d noticed earlier and was pleased to see that a large tarp had been hung in front of it. That meant the wall had already been taken down. 

Slipping underneath the tarp they came upon a narrow spiral staircase filled with cobwebs and muttered curses in various languages as they descended to the level below. At the bottom was a small room with a rack of old, rusted weapons and a rotting table and chair. 

“Nothing here,” Charlie murmured. “Why would... oh. Never mind.” He’d spotted the concealed mechanism to open the secret passage at the far end at about the same time Desmond had. Desmond gave him the slightest of nods, so he ambled over and activated it. 

The wall slid back without a sound and they walked through, the entrance closing behind them immediately after by what Desmond guessed was pressure plates embedded in the floor. Clever little homicidal maniacs, their ancestors. At the end of the hidden passage was a door made of smooth dark stone with intricate carvings of circuitry set into it. They slowed their approach as the design began glowing a cool blue. 

“This thing has to have a key, right? Like the Grand Temple?” Charlie asked. Desmond frowned. This one seemed different from the others he - and his ancestors - had been to. Instead of a key slot or pedestal there was only a small square of pulsing blue light set into the surface at waist height. 

“I don’t think so. It’s probably just activated by biometric touch. If you’re Precursor, you’re in. Most likely a low-level data cache or something.” 

“Can we open it then? They had a war with us humans, if you recall.”

“We can try. And if _you _recall, I have enough of their genes in me to use their tech to its full advantage if I want.” Desmond stretched out his hand to press it against the light square, gaze fixed on the circuit carvings, and froze when he heard Charlie’s sharp intake of breath. “What is it?” 

“...You’d better take a look at your hand.” Desmond glanced down and drew it back sharply from the door with a short yelp. 

“What the-”

“Relax, relax, chill,” Charlie said soothingly. He walked with a deliberate calmness over to his friend. “Let me see.” Desmond reluctantly held out his arm, and Charlie grasped it gently before slowly pulling up the long sleeve of his shirt to the elbow, revealing all of the lower portion of his right arm. The fine white scar tissue was glowing softly, lightning-like circuitry pulsing golden in time with his heartbeat. Unsurprisingly, the pulse sped up as adrenaline flooded Desmond’s body. 

“Chill,” Charlie repeated in his forced calm voice. He was inspecting the lines with professional interest. “I highly doubt it’s anything serious. The machine probably embedded some coding into your cellular tissue when you got fried. Might make it easier to interact with Precursor tech, but other than that all you’ve got is an awesome-looking all-natural tattoo. ...That glows.”

“And you’re sure about that?” Charlie shrugged noncommittally. “I got possessed by Juno once, okay? I’m not looking to have it happen again.” 

“I honestly don’t know. Physically, with the knowledge humanity currently pos-_has_, you shouldn’t have any problems. As far as I know, but then again Precursor tech is so far beyond what I understand... keep an eye on it I guess. Not much more you _can _do.” Desmond nodded slowly, turning his attention back to the vault. Hesitantly, he stretched out his hand again. The closer it got to the Precursor material the brighter it glowed. 

“Here goes nothing.” He took a deep breath and pressed his hand against the glowing square set into the door. 


	18. The Soul Within the Sea

For a moment, it appeared as if nothing had happened. Then the blue square pulsed brightly in tandem with a burst of white light from the lines on his lower arm and hand, and Desmond felt an unsettling electric prickling sensation in his fingertips and scar tissue as the door slid into the earth with a very slight rumble. Charlie peered around his shoulder into the blackness yawning ahead of them and whistled softly. 

“What you’ve got there is an epidermis key,” he joked lamely. Desmond sighed. 

“Let’s go.” 

“As opposed to a skeleton key?”

“I get it.” 

“You wish you didn’t.”

“Bingo.” Charlie shrugged good-naturedly and followed him inside. The darkness gave way to soft bluish-white light set into the walls, the ceiling, the floor. It began shimmering faintly, gaining strength as they walked past and blooming into full brilliance once they had moved on ahead. Desmond’s hand remained a strong white-golden pulse down the corridor, which opened into a low-ceilinged chamber with a reflecting diamond-shaped pool in its center and curving walls. The pair exchanged a confused glance and edged cautiously toward the water. 

At the edge Charlie peered into the glassy dark surface, his reflection staring back at them. He stiffened suddenly, backing away. 

“What is it?” Desmond asked. 

“Shahin,” Charlie muttered. “I saw Shahin.” 

“Well, get back over here then. I’m curious about what he looked like.” Charlie moved into the water’s perimeter again, and the reflection of his face shimmered into someone else’s as they watched. This man had thick curly black hair and dark piercing eyes, sharp cheekbones, and a slightly hooked nose. Charlie’s softer features and light hazel eyes contrasted remarkably with the change. Shahin’s skin was darker, and he had a well-trimmed full beard. There was a set to the jaw and a severeness to the eyes that didn’t match his descendant’s personality at all.

“I don’t get it,” Charlie commented. He was avoiding looking at his ancestor and had settled on Desmond’s reflection instead. “Why doesn’t yours look different?” Desmond inhaled sharply, transfixed. He was staring at himself, and yet... 

“It’s not me. It’s Altaïr.” Charlie glanced sharply at his friend before settling back on the water. 

“You sure about that?”

“Pretty sure.” 

“He could be your _twi_\- scratch that, he could be _you._” 

“‘The past beats inside me like a second heart,’” Desmond sighed. Charlie’s eyebrows rose into his tufty hairline with curious surprise. 

“Socrates?”

“John Banville. He’s... a favorite author of Shaun’s. It’s from a book called _The Sea._” 

“Ah.” They watched as the water rippled again, Altaïr’s faintly stubbled jawline melting into bearded visage with whisping rich brown bangs framing the temples and a warmer glow replacing the sharp piercing intelligence within the golden eyes. 

“You’ve got their scar,” Charlie remarked quietly. 

“Yeah.” Desmond turned away from the water before it could begin showing him the Kenways, running his fingers along the trademark line cutting through his mouth.

“Greetings,” a sickeningly sweet voice said. It echoed throughout the chamber. Desmond and Charlie spun around to see a woman - though she was more a goddess than a woman - floating before them. She was composed of pure light, and Desmond immediately recognized her as communicating with them the same way Minerva had with Ezio. 

“Who are you?” Desmond asked hesitantly. Charlie just stood there with his mouth all the way open. Desmond brought his hand up underneath his jaw and closed it for him. 

“I am Urania.” The Precursor bowed her head slightly. “Who is it that comes before me?” 

“Desmond. And Charlie. What is this place?” 

“It was once a collection of vision, like many others that existed on the planet.” Urania swept her hand toward the pool. “Here we watched the stars and learned of our destruction. Too late, it seems, to have done anything to prevent it.” 

“And I take it this is only a small part of the... observatory?” 

“You presume correctly. There is much still buried in the earth. We were swallowed by the cataclysm when the land was broken and reformed.”

“Can we see it?” Desmond’s breath caught sharply in his chest as Urania’s holographic form, dead hundreds of years but speaking beyond the void, approached him. Charlie shivered and took a few steps back. Urania’s gaze seemed to search his own, looking deep into his essence. 

“You may. But you may not like what you find.” She swept her arm again, and a part of the curved wall slid backward and to the side to reveal a secondary passage. Desmond gave a slight bow and began walking, retracing his steps to grab Charlie by the collar of his shirt. 

“Come on.” 

The hall was gloomy and unlit, carved designs in the smooth stone that must have had the source of their glow cut off from them in the disaster. The only light that came to them allowing them to see was the steady golden pulsing within the scar tissue of Desmond’s lower right arm and hand. He held it aloft in front of him so that they could tell where they were going. 

They passed by long banks of disused power receptors and into a vaulted multi-storied atrium. A broken fountain lay in the center, water dripping down from the ceiling in a trickle and the collection leaking from the cracked basin out onto the smooth silver-colored stone floor. 

“This place is in pretty good condition compared to some of the others I’ve been to,” Charlie whispered reverently. 

“Same. But Juno’s Temple was in astounding condition compared to this place. ...Not that it was half as big or elaborate.” 

“I wonder if we’ll find recordings down here. You know, from before? Everyday life and important discoveries from the First Civilization would give us a huge advantage.” 

“That’s the Templar way,” Desmond muttered. “And the last time the Assassins used Precursor tech bad things came of it.” 

“Better to safeguard it than to wield it eh?” 

“It came from a time that doesn’t belong to us. From a _people _that we don’t belong to. It’d be like cavemen finding an iPad.”

“Oh, yeah. That would be catastrophic.” There was a short pause. “But they aren’t necessarily _not _our people, are they?” Desmond looked at him sharply. They were worming their way through some debris on the staircase, the stone slick from the dripping water. Chances were there was an underground river that had leaked in nearby. 

“And what does that mean?” 

“Just... It’s been, what? Less than six months after you got out of a two year coma? You’re completely healed, peak physical efficiency and prowess? 90% strength in your bad hand?”

“92%,” Desmond grumbled unhappily, flexing his right fingers with discomfort. 

“It’s just not humanly possible.”

“Can I _please _be somewhat normal for once in my life?” Desmond snapped. “I _know _I’m a little closer to these Precursor people than everyone else, okay? I _know _I’ve got a rare bloodline with a ridiculously high amount of First Civ. genes. I’m _literally _exploring an ancient highly advanced temple underneath an Abstergo complex where I’m being held against my will so that they can explore the lives of my ancestors. My arm is _glowing _for God’s sake. But I really, _really _don’t need to hear it from someone else right now. _Please. _Drop it.” 

Charlie was staring at him with wide eyes. 

“Are you okay?” He asked quietly. Desmond opened his mouth to say yes before closing it and shaking his head no. “Sorry.”

“I hide it well, I know. But truth is I’ve been freaking out internally ever since I woke up and found out I hadn’t died.” 

Pausing at a long track of what appeared to be computer databanks - they could have been the lighting fixture control for all they knew - they began investigating.

“Must be hard, everyone looking to you to figure out what to do,” Charlie commented sympathetically. He pulled out an ultra-thin wafer of some sort of nylon composite and gave it a good turn-over before looking up and noticing Desmond’s confused expression. “...Oh.” 

“What..?” 

“Well, everyone looks at Moussa and Moussa’s looking to you... so they see Moussa accepting you unconditionally as the guy in charge and they do the same.”

“Ev-everyone’s- I’m- what?” Desmond stammered. Charlie flashed an apologetic and guilty smile. 

“Yep. Sorry.” 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Desmond swore vehemently under his breath before making a visible effort to calm down. He happened to glance over Charlie’s shoulder and caught movement so he switched into EV, swallowing when he saw Altaïr and Ezio crouching on a jutting outcrop of rock observing him with mild and sympathetic concern while a bat flew harmlessly past.

Charlie started whistling the _Harry Potter _theme with no small degree of awkwardness as he put the tech wafer back where it belonged and then stood to leave. 

Naturally, that was when the entire complex decided to turn itself on.


	19. Memories Among the Stars

“The light! It burns!” Charlie yelped over-dramatically. Desmond sighed, then did a facepalm. His hand was glowing a bright gold-white now that actually hurt his eyes, and there was an energy coursing through the scar tissue that felt like a million fire ants were crawling underneath his skin. His muscles clenched and unclenched involuntarily with irritation. 

“Charlie, shut up.” They squinted at each other for a few moments as they waited for their eyes to adjust to the new light. “It is _really _bright in here.” 

“Yeah, no kidding. Were these people sun worshippers or something?” Desmond glanced around. 

“Every single one of these places I or my ancestors have been to I haven’t seen a single window. Doubt it.” Charlie sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets. 

“Well, the place is turned on... wanna see if the databanks are nerfed or not?” 

“‘Nerfed?’” Desmond asked, blinking in confusion. 

“Gamer’s term. Decimated, useless, no-good to anyone.” 

“Oh.” There was a pause in the conversation. They began traversing what was left of the facility. “You were talking about MineCraft earlier. You like playing then?” 

“Yeah. I do single player, first person shooter, adventure fantasy genres, MMORPGs-”

“World of Warcraft?”

“That. And a few others, like Star Wars: The Old Republic and Asheron’s Call. I like Tomb Raider too. Old Tomb Raider, PS1. Did a happy dance when they put out 10th Anniversary. Played CoD when it first came out but lost interest.” 

“What’s your favorite?”

“Crash Bandicoot.” 

“Mm. There’s some flickering over there. Machinery maybe?” 

“Worth checking out." 

“No Mario in your life huh?” Desmond commented mildly as they climbed some ridiculously steep steps. 

“I grew up in a PlayStation household,” Charlie answered with a laugh. “I spent my childhood with GTA and SSX Snowboarding. Prince of Persia - the _good _ones.”

“Why does everyone remember GTA when no parent in their right mind should have ever let their kids near it?” A tangle of now-sparking wires that they had to avoid with great difficulty. 

“Older siblings. Cousins. Quirky aunts and uncles or the next door neighbor’s juvenile delinquents,” Charlie grunted. He’d walked into a jungle of synthetic vines and gotten tangled. 

“You sound like you had a nice life before all this,” Desmond remarked quietly as he tried to help him escape. “You ever think about getting back to it? You know, if- _when _we get out of here?” 

Charlie quit struggling for a few moments, looking thoughtful before sighing in resignation. 

“Nah, man. Before, I was ignorant. There’s no way I could go back and pretend that I don’t know what I do and live with myself. You know?” Desmond shrugged, somehow managing to figure out the mess of cables and beginning to pick apart the clusters. 

“I don’t know. I did it for nine years.” 

“But were you happy?” Charlie was looking him straight in the eyes. Desmond blinked. He cleared his throat and fumbled with the cords. 

“No, I uh, no. I wasn’t,” he muttered. He closed his eyes and leaned his shoulder against a large piece of rubble. “In fact, the only time I can ever remember actually being... _happy _was in Monteriggioni. With Rebecca and Shaun and... and Lucy. Just the four of us against the world, sleeping in bags on the stone floor with the nearest actual bathroom in a library in town and eating nothing but crappy takeout and mainlining motor sludge that might have been coffee at all hours of the day and night. Hiding from Abstergo and taking each breath counting ourselves lucky that we weren’t dead yet. Bleeding Effect Migraines and really, _really _long sessions in the Animus.”

Desmond laughed; Charlie was looking at him as if he were crazy.

“Yeah, I know. That sounds nuts. But I’d never felt like I’d... _belonged _until then, you know? And they knew who I was, and they didn’t care. We talked about the work but we also had some R&R. Rebecca found this- found this projector in the trash and managed to get it hooked up to her computer. We spent some nights huddled together in this mess of blankets trying to stay warm watching whatever bootleg movie she’d managed to download that day with cheap whiskey and trying to catch Pocket Coffee in our mouths after throwing them in the air. And that was ‘happy’ for me. Closest I ever got.” 

Desmond eased off the rubble and started fiddling with the wires again. There was some snapping and sparking, but eventually Charlie was able to ease himself out of the live electrical zone. They walked in silence for a while down brightly blue-lit corridors the color of dull chrome and ended up in a wide room shaped like an oval with a depression in the middle and tiered bench seating around it. Cautiously, they sat. 

The room dimmed. Golden specks appeared on the ceiling and danced across its curved surface. Desmond and Charlie leaned back and watched, transfixed. 

“Okay this... this is beautiful,” Charlie breathed. 

“It’s the celestial bodies,” Desmond murmured. He was feeling particularly in tune with Edward at the moment; his other ancestors had loved the stars in their own right but they paled in comparison to the vast openness of the ocean on a clear night. The tang of salt in the air and the gentle rocking of the Jackdaw as he reclined in the Crow’s Nest just to feel closer to the tiny dots of twinkling light. No one loved the stars more than mariners, although Galileo had given them a run for their money.

It was odd. Desmond had never actually experienced his ancestor’s emotions outside of an Animus session before. The feeling was... like the ghost of true sensation but present and identifiable all the same. At the current moment, he felt somber awe and uncharacteristic self-reflection. Yet at the same time were his own emotions; he appreciated the beauty of the device and the stars themselves. Desmond was really beginning to dread the sneaking suspicion that personality displacement might be the next step. 

“What did you mean by that?” Charlie asked suddenly. He’d stretched out onto his back and crossed his arms behind his head; right leg balanced on his ankle on the left knee so that Desmond had to glance down at his face. 

“Hmm?”

“That little explanation you made earlier about what ‘happy’ meant to you. What does that mean for us? When we get out of here are you going to leave and go find your buds?” Desmond sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and just letting his back drop from sitting into laying on the floor. 

“_Uhh_. Bottom line? When we get out I’m going to get back in this fight. Not only do I feel like I’ve got a _responsibility _to, but I feel like I _belong _in the fight. More so after syncing with my ancestor’s memories. But I’m not leaving you guys. You’re my friends too, and some of you - _apparently_ \- look up to me to figure out what it is we need to do.” A pause. “What kind of leader would I be if I just abandoned all of you?” Charlie smiled. 

After a few moments he sat up with a heavy inhale and exhale. 

“We’ve still got a lot left to explore.”

“Yeah, we should get going.”

Exploration of the rest of the observatory only revealed more rooms similar to the first they had entered, each with a different spacial anomaly it was monitoring with a specific holographic color. Some of the rooms were too damaged to work properly, some far too structurally unsound for them to enter, and others still completely blocked by debris. In the end they decided that this place wasn’t too dangerous if the Templars somehow _did _find it, but it would still benefit them to keep it well-hidden. 

“We could stockpile supplies and weapons we find in there for the eventual bust-out,” Charlie whispered enthusiastically as they crept slowly over the gravel-strewn floor back to their bedrooms. It was almost morning. 

“Yeah. And since we-” there was a meaningful pause in which Desmond held up his right hand which was no longer glowing- “are the only ones who can access it at present it’s definitely safer than smuggling crap to the old tunnels and storage cellars the initial Assassins built and crossing our fingers hoping Abstergo never finds the stuff.” 

Charlie nodded sagely, adopting a look of quite frankly unbelievable wisdom and pretending to look like a scholar. He then winked and did a sarcastic fake salute before smoothly turning on his heel 90° in the direction of his room. 

“See ya later boss.” Desmond responded with some choice words that couldn’t be repeated in civilized company and all he got back in return was a maniacal laugh. 

...and probably two middle fingers. 


	20. Hidden Bounty (And Renaissance Booze)

“The first meeting of the rebellious guinea pigs is called to order,” Charlie stated sarcastically. “Ow!” 

“Thanks Luke,” Desmond said exasperatedly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I can do it again if you need me to,” Luke said a touch too eagerly. His hand was hovering near the back of Charlie’s head. 

“Nah I think we’re good.” 

“Dang.” 

They - and by they it was Desmond, Charlie, Luke, Moussa, Avery, and quite a few other trusted individuals that the rest of the group had vetted - were gathered at a table in the commons over an innocent-looking game of cards trying to decide their course of action. Among those assembled were faces Desmond recognized for their ancestors, and he’d been given an unexpected bear hug by a man named Emir who everyone had said was incredibly reserved. He hadn’t been able to help it, really. The Yusuf Tazim in him had reacted to Desmond’s Ezio. Another familiar presence was Shao Jun in the form of a woman named Lin, and lastly - a somewhat hostile experience on Desmond’s part and an apologetic one on Nathan’s - had been the traitor Duncan Walpole. Nathan was eager to prove exactly where his loyalties lay, it seemed, to make up for his ancestor’s mistakes. 

Thus six or seven of them were seated, the rest leaning over their shoulders and making it all but impossible for the cameras to see what they were actually discussing. Desmond was immensely grateful to their ancestors for having trained to become proficient multitaskers, because it was allowing them to casually play the game on the side in case an orderly happened by while also getting down to business. 

“Assets versus weaknesses,” Moussa said breezily. “That should be the first point of discussion.”

“We’ve got access to a Precursor site and Abstergo doesn’t,” Charlie said immediately, voice low. He threw a card into the center of the table and grabbed a new one from the deck. 

“And a hidden warren of tunnels our ancestors made that hasn’t been thoroughly explored by them either,” Avery added. “With a bunch of potential chambers filled with weapons and tools.”

“A vast array of ethnic and cultural differences because we’re a pretty diverse group,” Luke commented mildly. “Oh, Avery. I’m going to steal one of your cards.” 

“Take your pick. They’re all crap.” 

“Intensely stealthy and athletic...” Desmond muttered, wincing as he drew a card and then letting out a sigh of relief when he saw what it was. “Not to mention skilled beyond belief in melee _and_ ranged combat.” 

“Strength in numbers?” Avery offered. “2:1 ratio between us and the guards.”

“Weaknesses. First, we don’t actually _know _if there are any chambers filled with kit in the tunnels,” Moussa pointed out. “Second, I’m stealing one of Charlie’s cards. Third-”

“What was the second one again?” Charlie interrupted with a raised eyebrow. Moussa was deadpan.

“Card. Now.”

“...Fine...”

“Good. Third, and I think most important, is this: when the time comes to make our escape, what will Abstergo do to the other subjects unable to protect themselves?” 

There was a lull in the chatter around the table. 

“Oh,” Avery murmured. Her eyes were wide and scared. “You don’t think they’d- I mean there are limits to- right?” 

“They kidnap children,” Charlie pointed out mildly, sympathetically. Avery slumped down in her seat with a huff at the unwelcome reminder.

“Alan Rikkin oversaw some of my Altaïr Animus sessions back in 2012,” Desmond said subduedly. “With Warren Vidic. He was perfectly happy to just let me die after I’d outlived my usefulness, and until that point I’d shown no interest in resisting them because I was untrained and scared. He didn’t care.”

“We have to make sure he doesn’t get the chance to kill them then,” Luke explained simply as he dropped a card and picked up another. He smirked, which indicated that someone else around the circle was going to suffer on a future turn. 

“Vote to look into the future,” Charlie announced as he pulled the next three cards off the top of the remaining deck and then replaced them with a carefully neutral expression on his face. “And while I like the idea of keeping everybody alive it might not be legitimately possible.” 

“We take every precaution to keep them safe before doing anything,” Desmond said firmly. “Never compromise the Brotherhood.” 

“Never compromise the Brotherhood,” many voices repeated sullenly in low tones. It disturbed Desmond how easily they submitted to his instructions; he’d have to encourage debate and respectful disagreement. Mindless obedience was the Templar way, not theirs. 

“We should begin exploring the tunnels all the same,” he suggested with an uncomfortable clearing of the throat. “Put the stuff we find in the Precursor site as a fail safe. Work on getting us _all _out safely.”

“How are we supposed to do that?” Moussa asked mildly. “Shuffle the deck.” 

“I... may have a man on the inside who can mess with the cameras and door seals,” Desmond said a bit sheepishly. Moussa smirked knowingly; Avery just slouched in her seat with a scowl while Charlie pouted at not being told. “Look, this whole thing hinges on secrecy and stealth and the less people who know about the help we’re getting the better off we’ll be.” He leaned forward and grabbed a card from the deck, groaning at the card and then just lowering his head onto the table in defeat.

“Exploding kitten?” Luke asked.

“Exploding kitten.” 

-/\\-

“I need a favor.” 

“Exactly what I love to hear without context,” Mavis said with a meaningful eyebrow raise. “What is it?”

“Camera brownout and door lock malfunctions.”

“Why?” Desmond shrugged.

“Taking inventory.” 

“Uh huh. Fine, fine. Just keep it quiet. Too much noise and we draw attention to ourselves.”

“Moi?” Desmond feigned being hurt. “I’m always a professional.” Mavis, always the skeptic:

“Got a character reference?” A spread of the hands and an innocent smile.

“In my blood.”

“I think I hate you.” 

-/\\-

“This place is _amazing,_” Avery breathed. They were standing in the epicenter of the Precursor complex; Moussa and Luke hadn’t made it past the reflecting pool yet, but the girl was twirling about like a ballerina underneath the vaulted ceiling with wide eyes and an amazed smile. It was contagious. Desmond couldn’t help but share her enthusiasm for life when he saw her _shine _like that, and apparently neither could Charlie. He was watching her with a toothy grin and not a care in the world. 

“Yeah. Pretty cool.” Desmond shoved his right arm as far down into his pocket as it could go to try and hide the glowing scar tissue, self-conscious of the attention he was getting because of it and increasingly uncomfortable with the amazed - and _scared_ \- staring. Unfortunately the pockets were modeled after the style used on womens’ pants, and they were too slim to be of much use. The most they did was to obscure the fingers and part of the knuckles, and that was about it. 

“This is great!” Luke said enthusiastically as he sauntered into the open space. He clapped Desmond affectionately across the back - hard enough to teleport Desmond mentally through time to the Mercenary barracks where Barto was proudly showing him the new display he’d gotten made for Bianca above the mantle - and then dragged Charlie into a headlock and gave the roughest noogie ever committed. 

“Hey hey hey break it up,” Desmond laughed. 

“Help!” Charlie wheezed. Well, half-wheezed half-yelped. It was difficult to tell which exactly. _Whelped. _

“Ah, another victim of the Foréster noogie attack,” Moussa sighed with mock pity. “Such a shame. So young. So much to give.” 

“Desmond?!” 

“I think I like your hair better this way.” 

Charlie’s hair was an absolute mess. His dark curls were tangled with one another and beginning to mat, and it looked like he’d picked a fight with an overzealous squirrel. 

“Shut up,” he growled bad-temperedly. 

“We got the place open, we got access to the facility at night,” Avery said excitedly. “Can we go exploring now?” Desmond opened his mouth to say ‘no, it’s too late,’ but she fixed him with the biggest and sweetest puppy eyes in existence and he caved. 

“Sure,” he sighed. Avery beamed.

“Yay.” As she skipped out of the complex Desmond followed behind at a walk, reflecting on the fact that he was so tightly wrapped around her pinky finger that he knew the exact circumference by memory. 

The tunnels were dark and dusty as they advanced through; wary of drawing attention to themselves they were using Eagle Vision rather than torches or flashlights and several members who didn’t quite have the ability down yet were stumbling into walls. It ended up being a team exercise crossed between ‘follow the leader’ and ‘you can’t let go of your partner’s hand’ and Desmond kind of wished he’d been able to record video. 

Passing by a grated wall vent, he paused. Straining to hear even the slightest sounds, Desmond picked up the noise of electronic humming as it thrummed through the air. Peering through the artistically-wrought ancient iron, he was able to spot several computer banks running in a dim room with a vaulted period ceiling just beyond, and - with a flick into EV - several concealed passage entrances located about its perimeter. 

“Found the vertex,” he hissed. His voice echoed slightly down the passageway, and it was repeated by another. The telephone chain kept traveling through the group as they began to converge on his location. 

“That was quick,” Moussa breathed as they found an access point and stepped out into the room. Since it was a data cache the surveillance was sparse; it was easy to avoid the cameras in place.

“Yeah well. I figured that the Assassins wouldn’t want to build their system too far away from the Precursor site so that it was both easy to defend and to get to.”

“Good figures. You must have excelled at math.” Desmond let him know what he thought of that by letting out an incredulous snort. 

“What do you think we’ll find down there?” Charlie asked. He had opened a passageway and was peering into the darkness. 

“An escape route?” Luke suggested with a shrug. “Weapons, quality wine that’s been untouched for five hundred years? Who knows.” 

“Well if we can’t find anything useful at least we can get smashed,” someone else remarked drily. Scattered chuckling broke out across the room. 

“I’d give anything for a good Tuscan vintage,” Desmond sighed longingly. “Maybe even a Venetian if I feel like slumming.”

“You always struck me as more of a beer and whiskey guy,” Charlie joked. Desmond fixed him with a pointed look. 

“I was.”

“But then why- _oh._ Never mind.” 

“Yeah. I also like hot tea now and I used to hate it.” 

“Oh, same! But I still hate it on principle.” Desmond just gave him a weird look along the lines of _‘why would you hate perfectly good tea’ _and moved off to talk with Moussa. 

In the end they happened upon one armor cache filled with miraculously well-preserved Assassin robes in the style of the 16th century Spanish chapter, some rusty iron plating with disintegrating chainmail and longswords, and three wine cellars filled with numerous different years of both the white and red variety, all of which they brought back to the Precursor site.

It took little convincing of Desmond and Moussa to let them crack a few open. After all, it was unlikely they’d see real alcohol again any time soon, so screw it. They indulged a little. 

...Charlie indulged a little too much. 

Desmond excused himself early from the group to find some paper and writing utensil so that they could begin mapping out the tunnels, but he had to settle for a blank wall and the rusted tip of an old spear. 

“You’re very driven, aren’t you?” Moussa asked quietly. Desmond glanced away from his chiseling briefly before going back to it. 

“Well, ever since Vidic scrambled my head I’ve had what you can call a vested interest.” 

“Psychic transference.” Moussa nodded knowingly as Desmond looked at him again, this time in confusion. 

“Psychic what-now?” 

“When your ancestors are so committed to something that it defines their life, the descendant who relives their memories usually finds themselves just as if not more so committed to the same cause.” A shrug. “And you have three Master Assassins who all devoted their lives to the Order, with another one who found his true calling when he joined on the side.” 

“You’re saying my determination is directly related to my emphasizing with my ancestors?” Desmond questioned. Moussa smiled.

“I’m not the one carving a map into the stone wall with a dull spearhead.” 

“So I’m going crazy then.” 

“I think everyone, at some point in their life, finds something worth being crazy _for.” _Desmond blinked, considering that statement before hesitantly accepting a glass of red wine from a seminal year and sharing a piece of rubble as a bench with the older Assassin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the card game Desmond and Co. are playing is actually real. It’s really intense because it’s like playing Russian Roulette with a bunch more rules. It’s called Exploding Kittens, and if you get one and you can’t skip then you’re out of the game. Lot of fun though. 


	21. Cal

“How’s moving day going?” Mavis asked nonchalantly as she put Desmond through his paces.

“We’ve set a date,” Desmond grunted. His arms were shivering slightly as he struggled to maintain a handstand and do pushups at the same time. He blamed himself, really. He should have known better than to comment that the exercises she was having him do previously were too simple. Needless to say, Mavis was enjoying watching him suffer as she updated his patient file.

“That’s good.”

“Did you just write ‘has a firm butt and well-defined abs’ on my form?” Mavis looked at him with challenge, a smirk on her lips and amusement dancing behind her glasses.

“Are you saying you don’t?” 

“So once we get out, what message do you want me to deliver to your friends?” Desmond asked with blunt change of the subject. This only further convinced Mavis that she had won, which put her in a good mood. 

“You can stand upright now,” she laughed with a touch of triumph. “Wouldn’t want anything to go to your head.” 

“Ha ha.” Mavis’ tone took on a more serious quality to it, though she still maintained the smirk. 

“Look, once you get out you’ll need to go to a pre-determined location and leave a thumb drive in a safe place. Okay? I’ll tell you more when it’s time to leave.” Desmond did a graceful backward return to the ground with his feet, almost as if he had just finished a gymnastics roll in the Olympics with top form, and straightened his clothes out as they fell back into their proper place. He nodded as he went to grab his water bottle.

“Sounds reasonable. And not nearly enough compensation for all the trouble we’ve put your people through.” The water was cool and refreshing, electrifying his tired body with new energy. 

“Well... we were thinking the same thing, and we’d like to have a permanent member of our organization working with the Assassins.” 

“Yeah? Who?”

“Me.” Desmond choked on his water.

-/\\-

“Jack, how do you politely tell someone that something will happen when Hell freezes over?” 

“Mavis told you about her scheme then,” Jack laughed. Desmond groaned. “I’ll take that as a yes.” They were standing in a secluded section of hallway chatting in a somewhat conspiratorial manner, leaning against the wall and passing the time.

“Did I... somehow anger the gods of endless suffering in some way?” Jack shrugged. 

“Maybe. Do anything they’d take offense at lately?” 

“I may or may not have popped the corks on some priceless antique wines with some friends on a whim and sat back with a good Tempranillo and watched as a few got smashed. The people, not the bottles.” 

“You know what? I don’t want to know.”

“...That would probably be for the best.”

“By any chance did you save me some of that Tempranillo?” 

“We’ve got a wide selection still available. Do you prefer a red or a white?”

“You’re kidding.” 

“Nope.”

“I take a good Macabeo.” 

“Done.” They both watched with mild interest as Charlie went stumbling down the hall, hair matted and a faraway look in his eyes. “Hey Charlie!” 

“Ooh.” He glanced at them and rubbed his temples, frowning. “Hey Des. Who’s your friend?” 

“My uh, one of the um, orderly. Jack. This is Jack.” Charlie brightened a bit at that.

“Oh, yeah. I remember. One of the few people who actually cares about their “patients” here.” 

“That’s me,” Jack affirmed good-naturedly as he jabbed his thumb at his own chest. “Man with a conscience. You hungover?”

“...No. Silly idea. Where would I even _get _alcohol in this joint?” 

“Good question.” Charlie squinted suspiciously at Jack and Desmond snickered. “Relax, Sundance. Butch didn’t say squat.” 

“Des! Moussa’s looking for you two,” Avery announced as she came running up to them. “New inmate. Said it was serious.” 

“How serious?” 

“Res paridisi possibilis est.” Desmond arced an eyebrow in surprise while Charlie pouted at being left in the dark. 

“Loquerisne Latine?”

“Primogenitrix Catholica pia erat.” 

“Ah.” 

«What, Persian isn’t good enough for you?» Charlie sighed. 

“Don’t change the language!” Avery snapped irritably. 

“Whatever happened to good old-fashioned English?” Jack sighed. 

“So where did Moussa go?” Desmond asked with a pinch of the nose. 

“He’s in the main hall,” Avery huffed. She looked uncomfortably at Jack and shuffled slightly closer to Charlie when the orderly smiled at her. “We’ll see you there. Come on Charlie.” 

“I don’t think they like me much,” Jack commented unconcernedly. Desmond shrugged. 

“Comes with the territory J,” he sighed before following after. Jogging lightly after the other two, he came to the main hall and slowed to a stop. 

“Wondered when you’d be getting here,” Charlie remarked tersely, crossing his arms. 

“Charlie, come on. I know for a fact Avery filled you in on the way here.”

“No no, it’s completely fine. I realize I don’t speak any fancy schmancy languages and that I’m not haute couture.”

«Jealousy doesn’t suit you.» Charlie had the nerve to actually pout the bottom lip. 

«Leaders shouldn’t have favorites.»

«Grow up.»

“Persian?” Moussa asked quietly as he cruised over to them. Desmond exhaled loudly through his nose.

“Petty squabble. What’s up?” Moussa nodded toward a spot farther down the hall. 

“That.” Desmond followed his gesture and winced. 

“Oh.” 

“I was just minding my business on Breakneck Ridge when he came stumbling in,” Moussa explained quietly. A pair of orderlies were dragging an unfamiliar face - recently sedated - down the hall. Breakneck Ridge was an open-air garden area that offered a stunning view of Madrid from the facility that they were allowed to frequent, and while Abstergo called it “The Conservatory” the Assassins has given it its more popular name because there wasn’t any glass separating anyone from taking a steep nosedive onto the cement promenade directly below. Subjects had been known to go crazy from time to time and jump. 

“Are those... Death Row fatigues?” Desmond asked curiously. 

“Yes. We get a lot of them here. A faked death...”

“And an easy explanation as to why they disappeared off the face of the Earth,” Desmond summarized. 

“Exactly. ...Sofia seems to like him. They’re taking him directly into the Animus.” 

Desmond sighed and gave a short nod, watching keenly as they dragged the newcomer away. He turned to some of the Assassins in the immediate vicinity. It had taken a little while to get used to seeing old spirits in new bodies - and they seemed to regard him with a quiet awe - but they had quickly become members of an impromptu reformation of the Brotherhood. 

It wasn’t hard to notice that every single one of them was looking at him to see what it was they should do. 

“Name?” Desmond asked, uncomfortably clearing his throat. Moussa shrugged. 

“Sofia called him Cal. I’ll look into it.” 

“Thanks.” Desmond hesitated slightly before pointing to Emir, Nathan, and Lin. _Yusuf, Duncan Walpole, and Shao. _“I want you four to keep tabs on him. Please. He...” it suddenly struck him. “Looks exactly like Aguilar De Nerha.” 

Quiet murmuring from the group, but no one was truly capable of being surprised anymore. Abstergo were just that good at what they did. Moussa held his gaze steadily.

“We aim to please,” he replied with the slightest of smirks. Desmond responded with a forced smile and watched as they all dispersed before padding tiredly into the conservatory. He went straight up to the cement half wall and stepped onto it, opening his arms slightly as he stood on the edge and closing his eyes as he turned his face into the wind. He didn’t really know how long he stayed that way; until the wind changed direction was his only indicator, but when it did he stepped off the wall and back onto safe turf. 

_So close to freedom, but I have to sing my Swan Song to get to it... _

Out in the main hall, Moussa approached him. 

“He’s coming out of his session,” the older man said quietly. Desmond nodded. 

“I’ll go talk to Rikkin feminine then.” 

“You handle leadership very well,” Moussa added, tugging lightly on his sleeve as he went to move on. “But you seem reluctant to take charge.” 

“I... I was never ‘that guy,’ Moussa. That comes from my ancestors.” 

“No, it doesn’t.” Moussa was looking at him steadily now. “It comes from within. The _experience _your ancestors have with leading helps, but being effective comes from _you_. I was never cut out for it, but I was senior and that meant I was first choice. Now you’re here. And whether you like it or not, we’re all looking to you now for guidance. You’d better get used to it.” 

He let go and walked off at an ambling pace, seeming unconcerned nor affected by the serious conversation in the slightest. Desmond exhaled heavily through his nose in both exasperation and mild anxiety before heading toward the Animus chamber. 

The session was ending when he got to the door, where he smiled coolly at the security posted outside and waited. Sofia came out after a pair of orderlies dragged an unconscious “patient” between them - it wasn’t uncommon for first time users to pass out - and froze when she saw him. 

“What are you doing here?” She asked. Desmond shrugged, hooking his thumbs on his pockets. 

“Heard you got a new tenant. Wanted to meet the neighbors.” 

“What happens with our patients is none of your concern,” Sofia retorted crossly. 

“He your new golden boy? That didn’t take long.” 

“I don’t-”

“Aguilar De Nerha.” Desmond watched as Sofia registered his knowledge with well-masked surprise. 

“How did you know?” She asked.

“I met the guy, remember? And this descendent of his- Cal, right? Callum? Looks just like him. And considering that Aguilar hid an Apple, I’m guessing that’s what you’re after.”

“You are remarkably well-informed for a prisoner,” Sofia commented suspiciously. Desmond smirked. 

“Oh, so I’m not a patient anymore huh? Not Subject 17, or Subject whatever new number you gave me? Good to know. Finally got an honest answer.” 

There was a flash of anger in her eyes, and she shoulder-checked him as she brushed harshly past. At the end of the hall she stopped and turned briefly to fling a parting warning over her shoulder.

“Stay away from Callum Lynch, Mr. Miles.” 

“Don’t hold your breath,” Desmond muttered sourly as she whisked out of sight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Loose Translation from Latin to English. Special, Special Thanks to DarthTofu for correcting my translation! I am not a fluent student of Latin so any help making the Google more fluid and correct is absolutely wonderful. 
> 
> Res paridisi possibilis est - Possible Piece of Eden
> 
> Loquerisne Latine? - You speak Latin?
> 
> Primogenitrix Catholica pia erat - Ancestor was a devout Catholic


	22. With the Bit in His Teeth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys! I just want to say that I will be slowing down with my updates soon. You see, I had previously had this story posted on Wattpad and instead of uploading it all at once I decided to do a week by week (or thereabouts fairly regular) update schedule. But now we're on chapter 22, and I am still writing chapter 34. 
> 
> Obviously this leaves quite a stretch of time for you to still receive semi-weekly updates, but I just wanted to give you that time to get used to the idea. When I finally catch up with my writing my last (aka most recent) update will again remind you that the schedule will be changing from fairly regular to whenever it gets finished. Thank you all for being very understanding; you're truly a great set of readers to put out content for.

Desmond had taken great care not to directly interact with Cal during his short tenure at Casa del Abstergo, but that hadn’t meant that he wasn’t off on the side keeping a watchful eye. He’d caught Cal looking uncertainly about a few times, that instinctual feeling of being observed that you couldn’t quite place causing him to stop and evaluate his surroundings with a suspicious gaze. Not that he’d been able to locate Desmond; Cal was new to the whole Assassin thing and Desmond had over 500 years experience to draw from. 

Moussa and Co. had had a few one on one conversations with him, though. And the verdict was that he knew who the Assassins were and despised them on principle. Why was a question still to be answered, but he had only contempt for them. Abstergo were even worse off, but then again incarceration tended to make people hate you. 

Cal was what some people would call... socially difficult. He avoided contact with the other Subjects and made it obvious he wanted to be alone when someone tried to be friendly, and after two weeks even Avery had given up trying to be pleasant. 

And speaking of Avery...

Desmond ended his daily Cal observation prematurely as she came walking into the commons on unsteady feet. 

“You okay Lil’ Sis?” He asked, standing. He didn’t like the glazed look in her eyes. Avery honed in on the sound of his voice and, when she saw him, burst into tears. Desmond promptly ran over and she threw herself into his chest as he wrapped his arms around her. She buried her face in his neck as he bent slightly to hold her and his shirt was quickly becoming wet. He just let her cry for a few minutes before he scooped her up and carried her back to her room. 

“What’s wrong?” He asked softly when he’d set her down on her bed. Avery took in deep, gulping breaths as she struggled to get her emotions under control. Desmond patiently waited until she was ready, sitting lightly on the edge at the bottom of the bed and letting her lean into his side. She was trembling. 

“She won’t leave me alone,” Avery sobbed. “I see her everywhere.” 

“They had you in the Animus.” 

“Mmhmm.” A nod. “And I haven’t been in a while and I’m kind of rusty and it hurts it hurts it hurts and I miss my mom and my dad and my Gampa and I keep seeing ghosts and my head hurts and I just- I wanna go home... but I can’t...”

Desmond sighed and rubbed her shoulder comfortingly. He was trying his best not to get up and beat the snot out of whoever happened along his path wearing the Abstergo logo on their lab jacket because Avery didn’t need that right now, but it was hard. He settled for scrunching the bedspread with his free hand and digging his nails into the fabric. 

“I’m slated for later this afternoon,” he whispered. Avery snuggled closer into his side, if that was even physically possible. She’d stopped heaving sobs and had settled to shaky breathing with the occasional sniffle and a constant stream of tears. 

“I don’t want you to go,” she whimpered. 

“I’ll be back later,” Desmond replied with a forced cheerfulness. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“...Mm.”

“So h-how long did they... how long were you... in there?”

“Two sessions at three hours apiece with a one hour break. Was up most of the night.” Desmond frowned. 

“Only six.” Avery nodded.

“My tolerance is really, really low. I should only be in 1.5 with long breaks in between, but they were in a hurry today. You?” 

“Ah, geez. Um... longest I ever went was 19 hours a day for four days straight. Side effects were severe sleep deprivation, a constant migraine, dehydration, and low blood sugar from not eating enough. And when Shaun wasn’t around I only had a mild headache.” That managed to get a subdued laugh out of her. 

“When exactly are you in?” Avery asked quietly. 

“About an hour.” 

“Can you stay with me until I fall asleep?” 

“...Yeah, sure.” Avery crawled over to the top of her bed and then pulled the covers back before crawling underneath them and curling into a tight ball. Desmond stayed where he was, at the end, feeling a little awkward about the whole thing and trying to figure out how to break the uncomfortable silence which had lasted for a solid ten minutes before he came up with the solution.

“Um, Avery?”

“Yeah?” 

“I know your brain is kinda stuck in an endless loop thinking about your ancestor, so... wanna hear a few stories about mine?” Avery smiled, brightening noticeably. She made herself more comfortable and nodded.

“That sounds great.” Desmond breathed a sigh of relief. 

“Okay, what do you wanna hear about?”

“Pirates.”

“...Naturally. Because meeting George Washington, King Richard the Lionheart, or Leonardo DaVinci isn’t half as interesting as the early 18th Century Caribbean.” 

“Blame Johnny Depp.” 

“Oh, I do.”

-/\\-

“Where to this time, oh stoic leader?” Clay asked snidely. Sofia sighed in annoyance and Desmond snickered. 

“Early 16th Century Istanbul,” she replied tersely without looking over her shoulder. The smirk on Clay’s holographic face dropped almost instantly. Moments later, his voice echoed inside Desmond’s head.

_The Masyaf Keys._

_Sounds like it. What should I do? If I resist I could end up a vegetable and then they can do whatever they want. _

_Uh... Oh! You know how a song can get stuck in your head for days, plays on a loop?_

_Are you suggesting I create my own ‘static interference?’_

_Of sorts. Pick a memory, or a series of memories. Make sure they’re intense, so it’s harder for them to pull you out. Then really get into it, okay? Just dive in and don’t come up for air until you’re through with the set or you’re too tired to keep going in the Animus at all. _

_And you’re sure that’ll work? _

Clay’s shimmering body shrugged. 

_When I was losing my mind... sometimes a different memory would interrupt my session and they couldn’t pull me out of it unless I helped them. _

_Well, here goes nothing I guess. Thanks._

_Anytime. _

“All right Desmond, we’re going to start you off nice and slow. Ease you in, okay?” Sofia said soothingly. Desmond just nodded, already settling in for a fight. 

He wasn’t going down easy, and if they thought otherwise they were severely misinformed. 

-/\\-

_Constantinople was loud and busy, just like it always was. Ezio resented that; the Brotherhood should be allowed to mourn their dead in peace. To him, it felt as if the entire city should be in solemn observance as they laid Yusuf’s body to rest one final time. He had been more than a loyal friend. In many ways, he was what Ezio had envisioned Petruccio to be like when he’d grown up. They were of similar age too, with Yusuf only four years Petruccio’s younger. The striking comparison had pained him when they had first met, though eventually it had soothed old wounds with a sort of aching comfort. To lose Yusuf was to lose another brother. And Ezio had lost too many to want to see it happen again. _

_He fingered the Keys in the pouch hanging from his belt and sighed. Still one needed, and Sofia missing. It was knawing away at him like acid through iron, implacable and present-_

**0**<s>x</s>80**_0_**<s>7</s>**0**0_1_**6**

_«You’re certain you want to continue?»_

_«Of course. I’m not ill, I’m not injured. I just want to prove my worth.»_

_«Let me go with you then.»_

_«To keep an eye on me?»_

_«I’m worried. Is that so wrong?»_

_«Not at all darling. But you’re needed here. And this is where you belong.»_

_«At least let me send someone with you.»_

_«If it will put your mind at ease, then yes.»_

**0**<s>x</s>80**_0_**<s>7</s>**0**0_1_**6**

_He didn’t have much time. If Sofia were to be given back to them unharmed he had to be quick. One wrong move and- _

**0**<s>x</s>80**_0_**<s>7</s>**0**0_1_**6**

_«I just want you to be safe.»_

_«I will be.»_

_«...I- I love you.»_

_«...I love you too.»_

-/\\- 

“What is going _on _in there!?” Sofia Rikkin growled with a mix of perfectly-balanced frustration and anxiety. 

“What, you having trouble keeping him focused on your ittle wittle pwize?” Clay asked in a degrading babying tone. The doctor glared at him with malice and distrust.

“You had something to do with this, didn’t you?” She asked. Her voice was low and threatening. Clay spread his hands with an innocent expression, though it was positively gleeful. Impish. 

“Who? Little old me? No way. This is all Desmond. He’s got the reins now, Mengele. You’re just along for the ride. You want those keys so badly? Fine. Stick with it. But you can’t break a mustang that doesn’t want to be ridden. Pretty sure Dreamworks had a children’s movie all about that, _literally_ making it a concept even a kid can understand, but that’s none of my business. If you don’t mind, I’ll just watch the show. Can you do me a favor and make some popcorn? I have to live vicariously through the actions of others.” 

Sofia snarled at him as the memory sequence changed over one last time with a finite totality about it, the plastic tablet stylus in her hand cracking as she gripped it with a clenching fist. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all those wondering, the weird numbers, 0x80070016, actually read normally as 0x80070016, refer to Windows Computer Error Code 22, which states ERROR_BAD_COMMAND and basically means “The device does not recognize the command.” In this instance, I am referring to the fact that Desmond is refusing to accept what the Animus is telling him and has in essence hacked his own brain by refusing to recognize what the machine is telling him to do. I spent 45 minutes researching that trash. I sincerely hope that you are happy with my efforts.
> 
> The video that accompanies this chapter is taken from Dreamworks’ Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron and is in fact the very same movie referenced. I just loved the parallel and decided I wanted to roll with it. Desmond’s entire experience at this particular Abstergo facility can pretty much be summed up into this movie scene and the song, “Get Off Of My Back,” by Bryan Adams, that plays during it XD 
> 
> https://youtu.be/KJe30WorFvI


	23. Under the Wing Feather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Twas the day before Thanksgiving and in Midwest America...
> 
> An Assassin's Creed fangirl is posting slightly earlier than usual because the holiday week will mess all kinds of things up. (She also can't decide between replaying ACII, finishing ACOD, writing a Doctor Who fanfic, or getting that Map of Middle Earth painting she's been working on done for her dad's Christmas present).
> 
> ...I'ma play ACII again...

Maybe it had something to do with the fact that the emotion was just so raw and intense; the fierce need to protect mother and child coupled with an overwhelming desire to love and the anxiety if something should happen, the fear of not being up to the task as a father and wanting desperately for that not to be true, but Desmond always seemed to connect more naturally to his ancestors’ family lives than he did to their age-long crusade. 

Or maybe it was because... 

...Well. Maybe. 

At any rate, he was embedded deep in Connor’s memories and there was no way Sofia would be able to drag him out.

-/\\-

_A pair of baleful dark hazel eyes were peering out at him from the underbrush, decidedly human but guarded and skittish nonetheless. Connor took several careful steps toward the bush before, upon seeing that the mysterious person was about to withdraw, stopping and waiting for the next movement. _

_“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said gently. There was a show made of laying his bow on the ground. _

_“You look like one of my people but hunt with the colonizers,” came the suspicious response of a feminine voice. Connor glanced at the Assassin recruits standing behind him; they wore expressions of unease or awkward discomfort, those of European descent, those descended from former slaves or former slaves themselves, and those whose ancestors had lived in the surrounding lands long before Columbus had discovered ‘The New World.’ They came from a diverse mix of heritages that was helping to broaden the horizons of the Order’s members, and not one of them looked particularly like the other. _

_“I’m not sure what you mean,” he replied carefully. _

_The bush rustled as a Kanienkehá:ka woman stepped out with a sour expression on her face, her dark hair loosely braided and slung carelessly over a shoulder. She was bleeding from a tear in her arm, a bullet wound, and guarding that injury with a hunting knife in her opposite hand. If possible, it made her even more beautiful when she was threatening him. _

_“I...”_

_“Yes?”_

_“What happened? Are you all right?”_

_“No thanks to you.” _

_“What do you mean?” She blinked, her eyes boring into his. _

_“Your people did this to me.” _

_“...Oh.” Connor finally understood. “Listen, we are not from this place. We live downriver, the homestead by the bay at the cliffs. If someone harmed you it was not one of our people. I am training these men and women to survive in the forest, but we only set out today.” There was a long period of silence. “If you are willing to trust me, we have a doctor who can see to your wound.” _

_“What’s your name, shakorihonnién:ni?” _

_“Ratonhnhaké:ton, of Kanatahséton.” The woman adopted a more colloquial stance, though she still seemed uneasy. _

_“Mm. Onerahontsokon.” The slightest of smirks. «What do your colonial friends call you? I doubt they can manage your true name,» she continued in their language. _

_“Connor,” he replied with a slight laugh._

_“Then they can call me Onera. And, yes... I would like having my arm seen to. Or at least, I know I _need _to have it seen to.” _

_The walk back was an awkward one. Connor had left his recruits in the skilled hands of their Mohawk peers to begin the multiple-day lesson while he attended to Onera, who remained silent and uneasy. Her step faltered when the buildings of the Homestead came into view, and Connor hesitantly placed his fingers gently in between her shoulder blades to prod her toward moving onward. _

_Connor was, for the first time, suddenly aware of how exposed the main road leading into the makeshift town was to an intruder. Each house had full view, and there was no cover should you be attacked. Perfect for defending one’s property, as had been Connor’s thought process when the design had been laid out, but intimidating to outsiders. _

_“These are good people,” he said quietly as several faces began peering out at them as they passed. Onera made a non-committal grunt and kept walking where he directed her. _

_Dr. White was easily able to clean and bind the wound; it was superficial and the bullet had only just grazed the skin. Onera had barely let him near her - not at all if Connor hadn’t given her a tense but reassuring smile - but in the end the two of them had reached an understanding. _

_«Why do you distrust the colonists so much?» Connor asked quietly as they were walking back toward the forest. Onera indicated her bandaged arm and gave him a meaningful look. _

_«I have not seen any people from your village recently,» she said mildly. Regardless Connor flinched, eyes flashing with pain. She dropped her gaze with guilt. «I am sorry. That was out of turn.»_

_«No... It is not. The rumors are true. My people left the valley some eight months ago. I have not seen them since, and I do not know where they have gone. I am... alone among many.»_

_«Why do you stay here?» _

_«The students you saw this morning. This is where they belong, and they need my guidance. And so I also belong here. And my father was English, so I suppose they are half my people.» _

_«What is it exactly that you teach them?» Onera’s eyes glimmered with interest. _

_«Stay for dinner and I will tell you.» She stopped, so he did too. _

_«Was that- are you propositioning me?»_

_«...No...» Connor replied, legitimately confused. Onera scrutinized him, looking for any sign that he was lying, and found only sincere bewilderment. She suddenly smiled in a flirtatious way and offered her good arm for him to take, and after slight hesitation he linked it through his own. Connor escorted her to the mansion, where she seemed pleasantly surprised that there were no staff and sat at the table in the kitchen while he prepared a meal for them. That done, they sat before the fireplace in the actual dining room where Achilles’ family portrait hung above the mantel and they talked. They talked of Templars, of Assassins, of the new American government, and of the speculative fate of their people. _

_But mostly, they talked of each other. _

-/\\- 

It was only a short respite of time that Desmond was allowed before his privacy was invaded by the main contingency of their merry little band of miscreants, and tiredly he was forced to listen to Nathaniel rant about Cal. He sat there, sandwich half-eaten, and watched Moussa roll his eyes seven or eight times while Emir looked on with a carefully neutral expression. 

“Nathan, _enough,” _Lin interjected mid-tirade. “Can’t you see Dǎoshī is exhausted?” Desmond stiffened at the term; he’d heard it several times as Ezio from Shao. He opened his mouth to protest but was interrupted by a rather embarrassed Nathan. 

“Apologies,” he murmured sheepishly. His eyes still burned with the need for action. “But he _will _lead them to the Apple if we don’t do something.”

“And what exactly are you proposing?” Desmond asked with a sigh, slowly putting down his sandwich. No peace. Nathan returned a steady gaze.

“I think you already _know_. He is a traitor.” 

“And so deserves a traitor’s death, is that it?” 

“Yes.” Desmond leaned back in his seat. 

“This doesn’t have anything to do with Duncan Walpole receiving his dues at the hands of a pirate on the whims of fate rather than being hunted does it?” Nathan’s cheeks colored with anger. 

“And if it does?” He growled. _He’s eighteen. He’s a kid. _

“The Assassins do not strike in vengeance,” Desmond said carefully, “but in justice. If the two are aligned it is considered a rare occurrence.” It was as if Altaïr were alive inside of him, speaking _through_ him, and Desmond could _feel_ Ezio agreeing with everything he’d said. “You need to let go.” 

“Let me do it Mentor,” Nathan pleaded softly. His entire body was trembling. “Let me redeem my bloodline in the eyes of the Brotherhood.” 

He was going to do it anyway, Desmond could tell. 

“Fine,” he sighed. _Since you seem to need my blessing_... “He needs to be eliminated. That’s definite. And I wish there was any other way... but there’s not. And yes, Nathaniel-” he continued as the question eagerly formed on the kid’s lips- “it’s your kill. However. Emir, I want you to watch him.”

“You won’t be doing that yourself?” Emir countered curiously. Desmond shook his head.

“One way or another we’re at the breaking point. Whether Nathan succeeds or not, we need to get out of here before Abstergo decides what to do in retaliation.” 

“I’ll be preparing for the uprising,” Moussa explained. “I’ve already got a few ideas. But I’ll need many of you to help put things in place.”

“While they do that the rest of us need to flush out the tunnels,” Desmond added. “Find the last Assassin caches and bring everything to the Precursor site. Get gear, get armed, and find a route out of here that doesn’t involve the front door or a swan dive off Breakneck Ridge.”

“We need to secure the invalid as well,” Luke added almost immediately. Desmond looked at him gratefully.

“I know. That’s why I’m putting you in charge of that part.” Luke blinked. 

“Really?” 

“No one I trust more to get it done. We need to bring them to the Precursor site _before _Nathan strikes. How much time does that leave us?”

“Cal broke his back with that last session of his,” Charlie said thoughtfully. “Or, you know, hurt it bad enough it caused temporary paralysis. And seriously, how you find this stuff out astounds me.”

“Inside man.”

“Sure. Okay. Whatever. But recovery time after that is at _least _four or five days. Abstergo have three to get the information they want before Templar Primus shut the operation down and focus on the Entertainment part of the company. Too much scrutiny for a black-ops thing like this apparently. That means Rikkin will pull him back in in two.”

“You’re sure?” Desmond asked somewhat skeptically. Charlie nodded. 

“It’s the soonest they can do it without compromising his performance in the Animus. And Nathan can’t get to Cal before then anyway, seeing as his room is under heavy guard.” Avery snorted with suppressed laughter.

“It’s almost like they expect us to try and off him or something,” she chuckled darkly. 

“Two days,” Desmond said quietly. All eyes were back on him. “We’d better get moving. Nathan, prepare what you need to prepare and pick two or three people excluding Emir to back you up if need be. Luke and Moussa, same thing. Everyone else, I need you down in the tunnels. Let’s go.” 

And so they vamoosed, Desmond regretfully leaving his half-eaten sandwich on the table with a sigh as he grabbed Luke by the arm and led him to the tech support room. If he was going to get all those patients out, he’d need help. Charlie and Avery were right behind him, the others already headed for the tunnels. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dǎoshī : 導師 - Mentor (Chinese Traditional, according to Google)
> 
> shakorihonnién:ni - teacher [male](Mohawk, via non-Google translator)
> 
> Onerahontsokon - this is the name I have given to Connor’s wife. It is Mohawk for “Under the Wing Feather” (http://www.behindthename.com/submit/names/gender/feminine/usage/mohawk/letter/o as far as this website is concerned at least).
> 
> I gave her this name because I liked the meaning and the look, but if Ubisoft ever decides to tell us anything about this woman I will revise my assumptions to fit the facts. For now, he met a Mohawk woman with sleek ebony hair and hazel eyes who is just as stubborn as Connor is. 
> 
> I take my limited knowledge of Connor’s family life from the only official source we have, which is the Titan Comics Assassin’s Creed: Reflections Issue No. 4. Connor has at least two daughters and one son, and lived a happy life with his family. 


	24. They Fuel the Fire...

Charity looked up with a smile as Desmond walked into the cramped tech room, her nose mere inches away from a project. 

“Need something?” She asked. Her smile faded as Avery, Charlie, and Luke crowded in behind with an apologetic Jack peering around the large man’s shoulder. “Oh.” 

“We’re close,” Desmond said definitively. “But we have a problem.” 

“And that problem is...?” 

“The invalids,” Jack explained breezily. He somehow managed to squeeze past the others and make his way toward his colleague. “They need to be relocated to a safe place. And Des has one in mind, so all we need to do is work with the big guy here to get it done.” 

“Where exactly is this ‘safe place?’” Charity asked. Her eyes glinted with interest. Jack opened his mouth to reply and then closed it again with an expectant glance at Desmond, whose jaw had set firmly with stubborn resolve.

“Not until Mavis gets here,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning on one leg moreso than the other. 

“I’m here. Start talking.” Desmond had to laugh a bit as Charlie visibly paled when he set eyes on Mavis for the first time. In her heels she was about level in height with Luke, and she had more beef in her arms than Desmond and Charlie combined. She was the type of woman who could crush a watermelon between her thighs with relative ease. 

“H-hi, um, ma’am?” Charlie stuttered. Mavis glanced at Desmond as if she were looking into a camera on _The Office_. 

“Miles.” 

“Truth. So, underneath this facility we found a warren of old Assassin tunnels. And in those tunnels we found an entrance to a Precursor site. It’s not a fancy temple or anything, but definitely still a point of interest to both sides, and right now it’s the safest place to stockpile our gear and get the sick.” 

“A _Precursor _site!?” Mavis exploded. “How long have you been sitting on _that!?_” Desmond shrugged.

“Two weeks, give or take.” 

“You- ugh. Fine. Yeah, obviously we’ll help you. ...In more ways than one...”

“I can scramble the camera feed,” Charity offered immediately. “And unlock the right doors. Jack?”

“I can help move patients,” Jack added. “I’m authorized. And I can get some of you guys orderly uniforms so that it doesn’t look as suspicious.” 

“I’ve got my own little project I need to put in place,” Mavis grumbled. “It’s been on the back burner for a good month but it looks like we’ll be needing it right about now.” 

“Uh... excuse me, but who are you people?” Charlie interrupted. “I don’t know you from Adam and we’re supposed to work together?”

“They’re Erudito,” Desmond replied soothingly. Charlie’s mouth gaped open.

“...Oh. Never mind then.” Avery snickered and elbowed him in the ribs. “Um, ow?” 

“How long do we have to pull this off?” Jack asked. 

“Two days,” Avery replied. They all shared a worried look. 

“...That’s not a lot of time. Can’t you postpone?”

“The new Subject moved up the timetable,” Luke explained. 

“What, the Aguilar guy? I sat in on his first session. He’s _nothing_ compared to his ancestor.”

“Aren’t we all?” Desmond muttered darkly. Mavis’ eyebrows furrowed. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I’m saying that it took me exactly two sessions to figure out how to avoid cameras and three to expertly pickpocket like I’d been doing it since before I was conceived. Do _not _underestimate how quickly you pick things up through the Bleeding Effect.” 

“And now you’re...”

“Ibn-La’Ahad.” 

“...Right.” Mavis was looking at him curiously. 

“What?”

“Nothing. Just... It’s like your eyes get sharper whenever you talk about Altaïr. More intense. More... you know what? It’s nothing. Really. I um, I need to get on this project of mine.” She scurried out of the room without difficulty; people parted like the Red Sea for her, even in tight spaces. _Scary Woman._

“What was that about?” Jack asked. 

“I have no idea,” Desmond muttered. He was frowning as he followed her down the hall, tracking her golden form through the wall with Eagle Vision. _Definitely flustered_. “Look, if you need me... know what? Avery. I want you with Luke’s team.”

“But-”

“You’re the liaison. Think you can handle it?” Avery’s expression changed from unhappy whining to pleasantly enthusiastic in milliseconds. 

“Yeah!” She exclaimed, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet and perching momentarily on her toes. 

“Great.” Desmond smiled warmly at her. “Let’s get going then.” 

-/\\- 

Desmond stifled a sneeze as he crept past an air vent, the room beyond the metal grate filled with Abstergo employees and possible Templars among them. Walking from the instep of his foot and rotating the weight to the outer edge as he moved the next foot with the same motion, he was making progress silently through the tunnels. A team of Subjects were spread out as well, instructed to bring any goods back to the Precursor site. Desmond had opened the door and they had wedged it to keep it that way with about ten sentries posted nearby in case any Templars came knocking, so he was free to do some exploring. 

And he had to admit that stretching his legs felt really, _really _good. He’d never taken well to house arrest whether it was inflicted by his father, Abstergo, or by his team out of necessity, and being free to roam about was a luxury he relished. It probably had something to do with his deep Assassin roots and how every single one of them absolutely _loathed _being imprisoned some way or another. Instinct preferred lots and lots of open windows. 

...Which was why it was kind of weird that the majority of their hideouts were underground or in the basements of other buildings. Case in point: his current situation. 

A large room with a low ceiling opened up before him. There were a variety of artifacts spread around and covered in dust; much of it had rusted and become home to spiderwebs. And yet... 

A blink and change of vision, and the room was awash in indigo. Silvery forms sharpened and faded as Desmond scanned the area, his gaze alighting on a particular flagstone in the ground that began emanating a familiar and welcoming golden glow. Padding softly toward it, he gently slid his fingers under the edges and pried it upward. It came away with a dull grating sound and revealed a narrow but deep hole of poured masonry underneath the flooring. 

_And in another moment, down went Alice..._

Shaun’s reference to the children’s book before they descended into Juno’s Temple echoed fondly in his head as he slipped into the dark. The drop was short but deep. 

The space was barely four feet high and Desmond cursed softly under his breath as he shimmied his way about, eventually giving up and dropping down flat onto his stomach. Crawling forward across hardened but uncooked clay, he winced whenever the uneven surface came apart underneath his fingers because it had an extremely unpleasant chalky consistency. 

Eagle Vision was useless trying find anything worthwhile down there, so he was about to give up when suddenly the floor underneath rolled sharply downward and he slipped with a yelp into a large chamber. Uttering yet another curse as he brushed himself off, Desmond suddenly realized that the ceiling to this one was vaulted. Doors beginning to rot with age were leading off of the circular center, and there were racks upon racks lining the walls in between. 

Slowly walking up to one he let out the breath he had been holding and smiled as his fingers brushed against one of the objects on the racks. Everything had been covered in tarpaulin, or thick tarred canvas to make it waterproof, and - using Eagle Vision to heighten the senses - from the smell of things the cloth had first been soaked in a mixture of mercury chloride and arsenic oxide to keep away termites. 

What had been covered exactly were long wooden quarterstaffs with collapsible cores, spears, swords, axes... it was like Assassin Candyland. The coverings had prevented direct exposure to air, the area they were stored in was extremely dry and cool from lack of sunlight, and everything was astoundingly well-preserved. 

Wandering into another room Desmond happened upon more racks in a similar state, and in yet another were various chests that were rotting and rusted on the outside but had been lined with the treated tarpaulin on the inside that housed plenty of bombs of the shrapnel, smoke, cherry, and stink variety. A third room had barrels upon barrels of gunpowder and packets of ammunition for long and well-wrapped rifles of the kind Leonardo had once made for the Borgia; the rifled barrel kind. It was a secret that the Assassins had known about for centuries before the rest of the world had caught up in the 1800s, but never replicated; Leo’s initials were stamped on the butt of every single one and Desmond let his fingers linger on them reminiscently for a few minutes before moving on. 

A fourth room had more chests, these with silken parachutes inside them - yet another Da Vinci discovery that would not be commonly discovered until the 19th century - and remarkably well-preserved cloth. Packed tight in their chests and each wrapped separately from another utilizing a technique that hadn’t been known at the time by anyone else, the Assassins had somehow managed to preserve their cloth as well. And the cloth itself was Spanish-style 16th century Assassin robes. 

There were many, many chambers with other objects; crossbows, longbows, shortswords, daggers, throwing knives, lock picking sets, garrotting wire, whips with metal pieces weaved in especially near the end in a star-like flare, arrows, crossbow bolts, poisons that were still potent if not nearly as effective as they once were, and leather artifacts like pouches, belts, straps, quivers, and such all in various states of good to great condition. But the coup de grace, the piece de resistance, was what Desmond found in the last room. 

Hidden Blades. 

Or rather, the disassembled parts of Hidden Blade sets. 

Each chest held about five sets, the blades and attachments kept separate from the leather gauntlet and every piece specially and caringly wrapped, and there were about twenty to thirty chests in there. Desmond wasn’t sure whether to laugh or to cry, but he knew who he had to thank. 

«Aguilar,» he murmured in Spanish as he admired the blades and their housings. «Thank you for our inheritance, and our deliverance.» A pause for regretful thought. «And an apology for what we are intent to do to your descendant.» 

It was really Ezio who had spoken, but with Haytham and Edward’s knowledge of the language. 

Desmond sighed and began worming his way back up to the initial chamber, then worked his way through the narrow tunneled corridors as silently as he could until he reached the Precursor site. What he found when he got there was one of his teams hauling in old crates, the interiors covered in that treat tarpaulin and filled to the brim with books. 

“What’s all this?” Desmond asked. One of the team leaders, a woman named Sandra, stopped directing traffic long enough to reply. 

“Found an entire library underneath a chamber floor. Had a sort of root cellar in between it and the storage chamber.”

“I found the same thing, but it was the armory,” Desmond replied distractedly. His eyes were casually wandering after the chests; interest in the old novels, codexes, and even scrolls piqued. The Altaïr in him couldn’t resist. He ambled over to one of the crates and began carefully leafing through its contents, letting out a slight murmur here and a soft exclamation in Arabic there when he found a good one. Sandra was watching him with amusement. 

“You’re like a kid in a candy store,” she chuckled. “Where’s this treasure trove you found?” 

“I’m gonna collect a team and head back.” 

“Hey Des!” Jack said cheerfully as he wheeled a patient past them into the site. Luke, who was escorting another not that steady on her feet, smiled. 

“Things are going well,” the gentle giant updated matter-of-factly. “We should be perfectly prepared for whatever comes our way in the next few days.” 

“Keep up the good work,” Desmond wheezed as Avery hugged him and then ‘tazered’ his kidneys. “Ow.” 

“Hi.”

“You enjoying your job as a liaison?” 

“She’s running around like a little energizer bunny,” Luke joked. Charlie, who happened to come out at the same time to retrieve another chest full of books with the help of another individual, snorted. 

“No coffee for _that _kid,” he added meaningfully. Avery stuck her tongue out at him in response. 

“These the last of the books?” Charlie asked as he hefted one side of a chest, straining with the effort. Sandra glanced over from assembling a team to help with the armory. 

“Yep.” 

“Wait, come back,” Desmond whined pitifully as he followed the antique literature into the Precursor site. 

-/\\-

“This is... this is _amazing_,” Charlie murmured as he and the others helped gather up the contents of the armory. “So well-preserved...” 

“Feast your eyes on these,” Desmond grunted as he hefted one of the chests onto a slightly crumbling table. Avery crowded behind his shoulder to peer over as he opened the top to reveal the disassembled Hidden Blades.

“Can I have a set?” She asked with pleading excitement. Desmond smiled; both she and Charlie were giving puppy-dog eyes. 

“Anyone that makes the rank gets one,” he replied. “We’ve got more than enough, and luckily-” a tap to the side of the head- “we have the knowledge to make more.” 

“How much of this do you think we can take?” Sandra asked. She was leaning on a spear looking very much at one with the object and Desmond was reminded that she had some Roman Centurion in her, something they had in common. 

“As much as we can, so hopefully all of it,” Desmond replied with a scratch of the head. 

“Yeah?” She looked skeptical. “Even the stuff that hasn’t been used for the last hundred years as practical weaponry?”

“Personally if I pulled a gun on someone and they drew a sword I’d run like Hell,” Charlie remarked pointedly as he gathered up a pile of training sticks. “Expect the unexpected, I believe is the mantra.” 

“What he said,” Desmond murmured as he hefted a collapsible wood quarterstaff in his good hand. _Perfect balance, good weight, decent length for my height. _

The Spanish Oak had been stained a gorgeous dark cherry facsimile and it still glistened dully in the light of the torch they’d carried down. The core was hollow with special braided silken drawstring running through the center, the four parts carved to slot into one solid piece when the ends were twisted together. In need of a good polish and some fresh linseed oil, but otherwise prime condition. 

“I think I’ll keep this.” 

“It suits you,” Mavis said approvingly as she sauntered in. She squinted in the poor light. “How can any of you _see _in this??”

“EV,” six or seven voices said at once. 

“What are you doing here?” Desmond asked good naturedly, breaking the staff apart at the splits in a smooth movement and tying it loosely to his waist with a piece of frayed cord. Mavis grimaced. 

“They want you in the Animus.” 

“...Ugh.”


	25. ...And They Set You Up...

Aquilus had only been in his early 30s when he’d died, and it had left the Animus staff confused as to why they’d been able to witness that until they’d come to the conclusion that his wife Valeria had been very recently pregnant with their child when it had happened. Desmond, for his part, had already been unwittingly subjected to memories of conception in his dreams - or rather nightmares because they made him severely uncomfortable - and so it wasn’t a shock for him. 

He actually felt kind of bad for Aquilus, in a way. He’d fought so hard to avenge his family’s death by their betrayed friend much like Ezio had, but he had never been able to see his father’s mission fulfilled and had died thinking that his wife would soon be executed as well. The last thing he had seen was her terrified face wet with tears before the searing pain of the sword had given way to eternal blackness, the last sound her choking cry before things became muffled and he heard no more. Though Aquilus had been a member of the Roman Legion he had more in common with Edward than he did with Ezio, primarily for that exact reason. Both had spent their final few moments in abject fear for their loved ones before being brutally killed. 

Sofia wasn’t impressed by the memories, angry with him for refusing to step into Ezio’s and locate the Masyaf Keys. That suited Desmond just fine. He didn’t have to play nice anymore now that they were coming to the endgame. 

“Desmond, come here,” she ordered in a severe tone as the Animus wound down after his session. 

“Why?” 

“Because I said so.” Desmond made a show of thinking about it.

“Uh, Yeah. Not really giving me incentive. I have better things to waste my time with than listen to you spout how important my contribution to the Templar cause is.”

“Oh? Like what?” Sofia’s eyes sparkled with interest. 

“Listening to Charlie try and burp the alphabet, among others.” 

“Charming.” 

“Why even bother with me now that you’ve got Cal to tell you exactly where one of the Apples is, huh? What’s the gain?” 

“The _gain_,” she said with an icy growl, “is that we acquire the most arcane objects we can to remain ahead of your kind.” Desmond raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, my _kind_. I see. Do you even know how to use the things you’re finding? Or if you even _can _use them? I haven’t heard of many Templars nowadays with a high enough Precursor gene count to do it.” 

Sofia fixed him with a look and motioned for him to come over and stand next to her so that they could have a quieter conversation. Just to be difficult, Desmond took a few steps closer to the door and consequently farther away from her. 

“I’m not helping you, Mengele. Let me out.”

“...Take him back to his... _cell_,” she said softly. Jack nodded and, pausing to pick up his Hidden Blade set, escorted Desmond out. 

“Where are we going?” Desmond asked quietly once they’d got a fair distance away from the Animus. 

“Mavis wanted to have a word with you,” Jack whispered back. “After that, your choice.”

“Thanks man.”

“No problem.” 

Walking purposefully toward the PT room, Jack left him at the door and ambled off in the general direction of the Precursor site. Desmond took a deep breath before walking in. He found Mavis’ office in a state of uncharacteristic chaos and paused in the doorway, cautious. Either someone had ransacked the place and could still be inside or she had done it herself, and neither possibility made him feel particularly safe at the present moment. 

“Get in here,” an irritated Scottish voice whispered harshly. So it was the latter of the two rather than the former. He’d best be on his guard; if Mavis was worked up enough to trash her office she was capable of anything. 

“What... happened?” Desmond asked tentatively. Mavis looked up from a folder, tossed it over her shoulder, and snorted derisively. 

“Spring cleaning, Desmond. I need to pick and choose what the most important things I need to take with me are and destroy the items that aren’t.” She tossed him a file. “I looked into that thing you wanted. Found a lot of interesting info.”

Desmond opened the Manila folder and leafed through its contents with anxious abandon, gaze flicking over technical jumbo-jumbo tha he didn’t understand and picking out the pieces that he did. Slowly he sat on the edge of Mavis’ desk. He looked up only to find that she was staring expectantly at him. 

“Whoa,” he croaked lamely. She nodded. It wasn’t really anything he hadn’t expected, really. The tests revealed absurdly high amounts of Precursor genes in his DNA; the average human only had about 0.0002%; Assassins usually had about 0.004 or 0.005%. Sages had 5-6% (it was really helpful and thoughtful of Mavis to put the common statistics in the margins or else he would have had no idea what his results meant). He had 1.3%. 

“That makes you the most gifted non-Sage in recorded history,” Mavis remarked quietly. “And it’s what I like to call ‘active,’ meaning that it actually effects the physiology of your body. For most people it’s ‘dormant.’ No wonder Rikkin said there was something about you that wasn’t quite human.” She began tapping away at a tablet, pulling something up that looked like lab data. “Your endurance, stamina, speed, tolerance... it’s all slightly higher than the average person. Not noticeably, but still. Now, your senses on the other hand: your main five are significantly more attuned to your surroundings than other people. Not heightened; that’s physically impossible, but more sensitive. In effect, the highest level of sensitivity if you will. As for your Eagle Vision, it is far more capable of things than that of other people. Others can’t track energy trails left by their targets, for one thing, nor chase after them and still use it for another.”

“So I’m a moderate super human,” Desmond grumbled. “Abstergo would get a kick out of that.” 

“And they do.” Mavis shot him a sympathetic glance before continuing. “Your rate of healing is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. It’s probably what kept you alive after interacting with that Precursor device and your hand, even with the extensive surgeries you’ve undergone, should be pretty much useless right now. The fact that you survived a brief but extended coma without any degradation of brain function, and your proficiency to interact with your ancestors’ memories without any severe and prolonged problems afterwards, indicates that the coma was the result of your body rewiring your brain to be able to handle the unnatural influx of inheritated memory.” 

“So I’m adapting myself to prevent further injury and problems?” Desmond summarized. He was getting interested now; the Altaïr part of his brain was- well, the best description would have been _pacing._ It was like his thoughts and emotions in that part of his mind were pacing about, impatient and eager to learn more. Mavis nodded affirmatively in response to his question. 

“Everyone does it, but you’re doing it much more quickly and responsively.”

“That’s insane.”

“You also have more proficiency with Precursor technology than other qualifying potential users. I’m guessing that, the more Precursor DNA an individual has, the easier it is to use their equipment.”

“And even more so when they imprinted their access coding into your skin?”

“Exactly.” Her eyes glimmered with speculative interest. “Can you imagine what a Sage would be like, with their percentage? It bears thinking about.” 

“I doubt you’ll ever get an opportunity to compare,” Desmond replied with a shrug as the image of Bartholomew Roberts flashed across his mind. 

Mavis swallowed uncomfortably, eyes straying anywhere but to meet his gaze. 

“...There’s something else you’re not telling me, isn’t there.” 

“...Yes.”

“What?”

“Doing my digging around, I... stumbled across something from October of 2015. A... a woman brought her son into an Abstergo clinic in New York. He was...”

“He was ten years old,” Desmond interrupted with a quiet and numb voice. Mavis finally looked at him with wide, surprised eyes. 

“Yes. His- well, I guess you already know, but I’ll say it anyway. His patrilineal line matches your DNA perfectly. He’s- he’s your son.”

“W-what’s his name?”

“...Elijah.” Desmond sighed softly, the faintest of smiles straying across his lips. 

“She named him after her grandfather.”

“So, you know him. The um- the Abstergo file indicated that you... unknowingly fathered him.” 

“No, his mother, Karen- she told me-” Desmond’s voice cracked with pain from both old and new wounds. “She told me she lost the baby. We... we were only together for a few months before we broke up. She was moving back upstate because her family lived there and her dad wasn’t doing well, and she told me she was pregnant, and... and I was fully prepared to follow her. I didn’t even know if it was a boy or a girl yet, I was way too young and messed up from my past at that time, but still: I already loved that kid. Yeah I freaked out when she told me. Started panicking whenever I thought about our future. But the fact was I was ready to drop everything I’d built for- well, now I know. For _him._”

“...Desmond.” 

“We both knew I wasn’t ready to be a dad. Karen’s parents hated me just on principle because I’d gotten their only daughter pregnant. She knew I’d had a hard life and had struggled to build myself something I could call my own. I guess, in the end... she decided that it would be best for both of us if I thought she’d miscarried. So that’s what she told me. She left for upstate, and that was it.” 

Desmond was receiving an overwhelming amount of sympathetic emotion from his ancestors, but from Haytham and Edward he actually felt _understanding. _It was the first time he’d really connected with Haytham at all; their personalities and views being so different, he never really had an occasion where he needed to root through the Templar Grandmaster’s memories in the way he had in the Grand Temple with the Animus. And Edward; well. Jenny had been nine when he had met her, and Elijah was either close to or already eleven by now. 

“From what I can surmise- and I did a fair amount of hacking to get this- after you vanished Karen made regular trips back to New York City and put out some inquiries. She didn’t forget you, Desmond.”

“And she probably never said a word about me to Elijah either,” Desmond retorted with a wry and humorless chuckle. “So... where is she now?” Mavis blinked.

“Batavia Cemetary. Upstate New York.” It was Desmond’s turn to blink; he paled significantly.

“I- what? How? Where’s Elijah?” 

“An Abstergo strike team. They took him, sometime in December of last year. Been missing for a few months. As far as I can gather they broke in in the middle of the night, and when Karen went to defend herself and her son they stabbed her to death in the kitchen. Police reports indicate, at least. Elijah is nowhere to be found.”

“But why would they take him if they already had m- Oh. Oh, no... He’s not... He’s...”

“You’re correct, unfortunately. He’s a Sage.”

“Of course he is,” Desmond groaned as he let his head fall into his hands. He was shaking slightly. “With my high Precursor percentage, what else would he be right?” 

“It’s not your fault,” Mavis sighed. “You didn’t choose who you were related to any more than he did. It’s... genetics. Quite frankly I’m surprised _you _weren’t born a Sage.”

“Is tha- is that supposed to make me feel better?” 

“No. But this might.” Desmond accepted the folder with trembling fingers and opened it up, his breath catching in his throat when he saw Elijah’s picture for the first time. 

“He has the features of a Sage,” Mavis commented sympathetically. Desmond sniffed, swiping at his nose with his free hand while the other gripped the edge of the folder. He let out the slightest of light chuckles, and the odd thing about it was that it was genuine. 

“Nah. he looks exactly like I did at that age - minus the eyes. That’s definitely my kid. Abstergo might say he’s a Subject, he might be a Sage or have Aita’s memories, I don’t care. He’s not theirs. He’s not Juno’s. He’s mine.”

“Meaning...”

“Meaning that once I get out of here I’m gonna hunt Karen’s killers down and get my son back.” Desmond’s eyes were burning. “That’s a promise.” He was letting his gaze travel slowly over every single pixel of Elijah’s picture, drinking it in and memorizing each feature. The slight dimple on the left side of his face as he smirked. The tousled dark brown hair, all tufty curls that made him look like he had perpetual bed head - Desmond mentally deciding to grow his out more to match just because - the somewhat darker skin that hearkened to their Native American and Syrian roots with the slightest dusting of freckles over the bridge of the nose. 

Desmond had had freckles, once. He’d grown out of them, and by the looks of things Elijah would too. They were already beginning to fade. His eyes... one was blue and the other brown, the brown one being that unique shade of gold that Desmond had inherited somehow from both Ezio and Altaïr. The blue one was strikingly similar to the color of Edward Kenway’s eyes, the color of the Caribbean Sea. It was a good look for the kid. 

And he was skinny, his legs too long for him and his face sharp and angular along the jawline. He looked like a runner, a climber... an Assassin. One day. When he was ready, and if he wanted to. Demond would train him to look after himself and then let him decide. That was how he wanted to do things. He wasn’t his father and vowed he never would be if he could help it. He wanted to be... 

Like Altaïr. Like Ezio. Like Connor. 

Giovanni. Umar. Achilles, when he and Connor had acclimatized to each other. And quite honestly, Al Mualim before he had been consumed by lust for power. Those were the people who he looked up to. And, yeah. Edward too. The man wasn’t perfect but despite all his failings his children had known they were loved and that he tried his hardest to do what he felt was right. And that counted. 

“Can I keep this?” Desmond asked, standing up. Mavis nodded, so he pulled the picture out of the file and slipped it into a pocket with care. “Thanks. I uh, I need to check in with people so...”

“Miles,” Mavis said simply. 

“Yeah? What?” Mavis smiled faintly. 

“His middle name is Miles.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Assassin's Creed: Syndicate it was revealed that Desmond had a son. In a comic series called Assassin's Creed: Uprising, it was revealed that his name was Elijah, and that he was a Sage. 
> 
> In Syndicate they insinuate that Desmond unknowingly fathered Elijah, but for my story plot I purposefully tweaked things a tiny bit.


	26. ...To Take the Fall

Everything was covered in a red haze, misty and pervasive. Desmond coughed, bringing up a mingled amount of blood and dry spit from where he was braced on his elbows against the floor. Blood was dripping from a deep cut above his left eye - hence the hazy mist as it caught in his eyelashes - and covered his torn knuckles on both hands. Dimly, he heard the sound of fighting all around him. 

«Get up!» Desmond groaned, shaking his head slightly with confusion as his vision blurred. He’d been hit really, _really _hard on the head by falling masonry. «Desmond! Get up! You have to get up!» 

Nathan had failed in his mission to kill Cal, which had forced their hand. According to Emir, he’d been too overzealous. It had left his footing uneven and his torso exposed, and Nathan was a slightly built man to begin with. Cal was a good few inches taller than him, with broad shoulders and the experience of being older to boot. Moussa had put their plan in motion without consulting Desmond - primarily because there was no time, and Desmond was happy _someone _didn’t hang on his every word so he didn’t care too much - and the facility had descended into chaos. 

“Desmond!”

Charlie. Far away, too far away. 

Everything was too far away, he was slipping away.

«Desmond.» His voice was clear, succinct, and near. Through hazy vision Desmond saw him approach, crouching back on his heels. He felt three fingers of the left hand putting gentle pressure underneath his chin, slowly lifting his head up so that they could look into one another’s eyes. There was no burning passion there, no brightness. Just a soft glowing determination and peaceful purpose. 

Desmond blinked, things clearing somewhat as he got some of the blood out of his lashes. No hard set to the jaw, just relaxed serenity. No tenseness in the shoulders, just graceful posture. His gaze shifted to a point behind, to the sound of soft-soled leather boots whispering across the hard floor. Two sets, each passing him. Strong hands underneath his torso lifting him up slowly until he was kneeling rather than bowed, now looking directly at equal level with Altaïr. Ezio on one side and Connor on the other, just within Desmond’s peripheral. 

«What are you?» Altaïr asked softly, his voice echoing ever so slightly as his form shimmered with a silvery glow. 

«I am an Assassin,» Desmond replied quietly in Arabic. His accent and toning matched his ancestor’s perfectly. 

«Then get up.» 

-/\\-

Desmond had been halfway back to the Precursor site when the facility’s alarms had begun blaring, and he felt his heart drop into his toes. _Not good. _He’d begun running, crashing into many other Assassins headed in the exact same direction, and had stopped just long enough to pick up his claimed quarterstaff and don a fraying leather belt that already had both smoke bombs and throwing knives attached to it before looking for Luke. 

“Is everyone out?” He asked worriedly. Luke paused in stacking crates to shake his head ‘no.’ 

“Jack went back for the last two. He left that for you.” A gesture toward a case which had been left on a nearby box. 

“Guy thinks of everything,” Desmond muttered as he pressed his thumb against the scanner and hastily slipped the attachments into place before donning his hidden blades. He spotted Avery trying to pick a sword that had good balance for her small frame and, nabbing a crossbow on his way over, he shoved it into her arms.

“I need you to take a group and search the tunnels,” he said before she could protest.

“But I want to fight!” 

“What, you don’t think they have people down there already? This is _important, _Avery. If even a single force gets to this place...” Her eyes widened.

“Oh...” 

“I know it’s not as dangerous as joining the main fight, but you’re too young. You’re still learning, and your size puts you at a very serious disadvantage. But you’re quick, and precise. That gives you an edge in confined spaces where you can use the walls and columns. You’re better suited to it than Luke, or me. Get it done.”

“I-I will.” Desmond nodded, looking away as she clutched the crossbow to her scrawny chest and scampered back out into the tunnels with a team of older teenagers in tow. He began to pace as the seconds turned into minutes. Finally, Jack and Charity appeared with the last two invalids. They were accompanied by gunfire, and before Desmond had a chance to come to their aid Mavis stepped in between them and the gunners and opened fire with a semi-automatic. 

“Get inside!” Desmond barked, relief washing over him. Luke darted out, suitably equipped with a somewhat rusty battle axe, and as soon as everyone was clear he slammed his right fist down on the door controls. It slid shut with a heavy _thud, _making it impossible for anyone to get in. A figure dashed by, a dagger gleaming in the dim light as it slit the throat of another security guard. “Emir!”

“Sorry, Desmond!”

“What happened!?”

“Nathan. He was too brash, and too small. He didn’t factor in the size difference.”

“So Cal’s in the Animus helping them right now?”

“Yes. Moussa took Nathan and Lin and is making his way toward the Animus to finish the job. I’m headed for security.”

“Watch yourself!” Emir paused to flash him a genuine patented Yusuf smile, all teeth and not anywhere close to his own personality.

“So long as you watch yours, Mentor.” And with that, he was gone. Desmond hesitated a fraction of a second before dashing after him, both of them headed for the main level out of the tunnels but in very different directions afterward. 

They entered into a throng of people; guards and Subjects battling viciously with one another. Most guards were armed only with riot batons, but the Assassins for the most part were unarmed due to the unexpected acceleration of their timetable. Desmond slid under an ally’s legs to rise up and roundhouse kick an attacker in the throat; even with his soft-soled shoes it was lethal. He heard something crack as the man’s eyes glazed over and he sank to the floor. Desmond was already moving on, going where needed to minimize the amount of Assassin casualties because he was better-equipped. A guard countered a swing of his quarterstaff and he let a hidden blade slide loose with a soft yet distinctive _snick_, his opponent’s pupils dilating with fear as he both recognized what that sound meant and felt Desmond swipe neatly across his torso. Blood gushed, his stomach splitting open because of the blade’s wickedly sharp edge, spilling internal organs. 

Desmond sidestepped neatly to avoid getting his shoes bloody in the pool and leapt over another guard sprawling on the floor, bashing her head into the ground with his quarterstaff as he went. It was all a dance, albeit a lethal one. Then again, the Tango was not for the faint of heart either... 

He ducked as a riot baton swung at his head, rolled to regain balance, and stabbed precisely in the center of the chest. The enemy dropped like a sack of potatoes. A new baton slammed down on his fingers, causing him to yelp in pain. Too late the guard realized her mistake as she saw that he hadn’t been holding the hidden blade in his hands. She tried to scramble out of the way as he zeroed in on her and drew out a throwing knife. It nicked her baton arm above the elbow, cutting through crucial tendon and muscle and rendering the appendage useless with impeccably accurate aim.

Desmond vaulted into the ceiling and flicked into EV, taking the brief respite to gather data on his surroundings before locating a guard captain in bright gold. He lobbed a smoke grenade into the chaos and performed an aerial assassination, the sharp cry turning to a gurgle as Desmond lowered his target to the floor and darted quickly to the side as a gunshot went wide, missing him easily. With the area awash in smoke from multiple bombs, the Assassins with their Eagle Vision had a distinct advantage. Sensing that the tide of battle had turned solidly in their favor, Desmond moved on to the next area. His ultimate goal was the Animus, but there was plenty of work to do along the way. 

The Rikkins had made a mistake in deciding to purge the facility, because the facility was full of Assassins who had nothing left to lose and were therefore desperate. Maybe neither father nor daughter had properly seen an Assassin up close in this manner, but they should have known that when cornered an Assassin was all the more deadly. And when they were fighting for their Brothers and Sisters as well as their own lives...

Family was more than blood and nothing stood in the way of protecting family. 

More armed Assassins were joining the fray now, either protecting the wounded or tossing a spear to a comrade while battling for their very lives. Desmond bobbed and weaved through the ranks, searching for anyone who needed help and then dealing with the enemy with prejudice. It was a mistake to underestimate them, and it was costing Abstergo dearly. The halls were beginning to clear out, the smoke less thick, and the bodies either unmoving or headed into the Commons because it offered more space and tiered levels which gave the Assassins a clear advantage. Desmond was about to join in when a heavy-set guard blocked his path, a riot baton in one hand and a close contact taser in the other. 

Avoiding the taser, Desmond braced himself and hissed through gritted teeth as the baton slammed into his ribs. He heard and felt some of them crack simultaneously, blood welling in his mouth as he bit into his tongue to keep from screaming and the metallic taste unpleasant. He swung hard with bare knuckles, the skin tearing as they collided with light armored cloth. His fist skidded upward and caught the man in the larynx, but it was weak because it hadn’t been his intended target. 

The taser came for him again, and instead of taking the baton blow Desmond leapt into the air to twist like a ballerina and slam both feet into the guard’s chest. The man timbered, stunned and wheezing, before Desmond stabbed him with a hidden blade in the upper right portion of his chest. He screamed, and Desmond let him be. 

Standing to gather his bearings, he stumbled as a large explosion nearby rocked the building. He yelped as a shard of cement whizzed through the air and sliced a neat cut above his eye. 

Everything went dark as a chunk of ceiling dropped onto his head.

-/\\-

Desmond stared at his ancestors in stunned shock, panting with pain as he heaved himself back onto his feet. Sound came back to him in a rush, vision still blurry except for the ghostly bodies of Altaïr, Ezio, and Connor. They were startlingly clear and visible, and it took him a few moments to realize that he hadn’t switched to Eagle Vision. 

“How...?” He whispered. Ezio smirked, tapping the side of his head. This was Ezio in his prime; at the beginning of his tenure in Rome, still youthful in appearance and agility but at the height of his skill and experience. Ezio the leader, the warrior. 

«In your head, Desmond. Always.» He glanced to the side to share a grin with Altaïr. «I doubt you’ll mind if I repeat myself. So... show them what it means to cross the Assassins.»

“Sir yes _sir_,” Desmond retorted, mirroring the earlier smirk. Connor placed a large but gentle hand on his shoulder, and Desmond was surprised to realize that he could feel it. Weathered fingers that exuded warmth, used to killing and creating both. 

«Save our people,» he whispered in Mohawk. Desmond nodded.

“I will.”

“Desmond!” Charlie yelped. It was enough to break Desmond’s concentration, and abruptly the other Assassins dissolved like fine mist as the other man came running up. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Charlie. Just a bad bump on the head. How are we with cracking the Animus?” 

“Moussa and Lin got in, but... Nathan... He’s gone. And the Rikkins got away.”

“What about Cal?” Charlie scratched the back of his head. 

“Thing is... He kind of had a heart to heart with Aguilar through the Animus and uh... he’s with us now. Too little too late in my opinion; he led them right to the Apple.”

“Columbus?” Desmond asked. They began jogging down the hall. Charlie registered surprise. 

“Uh, yeah. How’d you know?”

“Lucky guess.” He flinched slightly as he felt the part of his mind that belonged to Ezio do an equivalent of a conspiratorial smirk. _Shut it._

_If you say so uccellino._

Desmond froze in his tracks. 

“You okay?” Charlie asked. 

“Um, I um... Let’s just get everything sorted out and worry about me later, all right?”

“...All right.”

_You should be seen to immediately._

_And just where exactly is he supposed to receive quality psychiatric care at the moment?_

_Play nice kids._

Connor, then Haytham and an amused Edward. _What is happening to me!?_

_Nothing you can do about it now. Ezio and I will try and keep the others quiet so you can concentrate._

Altaïr, a soft yet solid voice of reason backed by the quiet muttered agreement of Ezio. Each voice was speaking in its respective native language - meaning London accent, Syrian Arabic, Mohawk, Florentine Italian, and Cockney - and Desmond found it vaguely disorienting. He clutched at the side of his head and groaned, stumbling slightly but managing to regain his footing. Charlie murmured a concerned-sounding curse word or two but had no direct comment. 

Picking up the pace, they arrived at the door of the Animus chamber to find it had been cracked open by some very determined Abstergo guards. Every single one was dead though, and both Desmond and Charlie were just in time to see Cal, Lin, and Moussa scramble out a hole in the glass ceiling chasing after the Rikkin’s helicopter. Charlie looked about ready to pursue, but Desmond put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

“Let them go,” he sighed. “We still have a lot of work to do.” Walking slowly over to a crumpled form on the ground, Desmond knelt back on his heels and gently dragged his fingertips over Nathan’s lids to close his sightless eyes. “Requiescat in pace, my brother. You’ve more than redeemed your bloodline.”

Turning to Charlie Desmond whispered,

“But at what cost...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:  
Uccellino - baby bird (Italian)
> 
> For me it's about 10:30 in the morning. I just wanted to say Merry Christmas by posting my update on the 24th, because on the 25th I shall be very busy and I suspect others will be as well. Happy holidays, everyone. Only a week left in 2019!


	27. Bent, Not Broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, all!

By the time they got to the Commons the remaining guards had been subdued, lying on their stomachs on the floor with hands braced against the backs of their necks and their weapons well out of reach. Desmond inhaled slightly as he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and noticed his ancestors prowling across the area, alert and watchful for any sign of trouble.

It was over. They’d won. But at a high price. 

Avery came loping up to him with a bad limp, her right leg gingerly pressing down on the floor and quickly rising again once she’d moved her left forward. There was a deep gash above her knee on that side; it had been bandaged and wrapped appropriately but was still seeping and obviously causing an undue amount of pain. Luke was rubbing his shoulder with a grimace, indicating the axe he was still holding with a roll of the eyes. _Heavy weapons, pulled muscles. _

Even Charlie hadn’t escaped without a wound, Desmond realized; he was rubbing his hand every so often and holding the entire arm at an odd angle, most likely due to a dislocation in the wrist. Or a broken finger, it was hard to tell. Among their people they had many dead, and still more injured. And yet...

They had prevailed. It spoke wonders to the training of the Assassins that they had been able to accomplish what they did going up against the forces they had.

“What do we do now, Mentor?” Someone asked as they came in. Desmond winced at the term, internally telling himself that he’d have to get used to it in patronizing thought-language. They needed him and like it or not he’d been given the most experience at leadership - Assassin leadership at that - through the memories of his ancestors. And they’d picked him on top of it, so he really didn’t have a choice.

“Secure the facility,” Desmond said quietly, though authoritatively. “If even one guard manages to evade us we could have a lot of trouble coming our way. If anyone needs me I’ll be in the security room, getting the cameras back online so we’ve got eyes in this place.”

“The tunnels are clear around the you-know-what,” Avery added. “But I wouldn’t put it past them to sneak about.”

“So when are we going to open it back up?” A man named Samuel asked. “We’ve got a lot of anxious people down there.”

“When we know it’s safe for them to come out,” Desmond replied simply. “No one but us can get in because they’ve got override control right now and I’d like to keep it that way. I know we’ve got wounded and all our medical people are down there, but if it can’t wait for an hour this facility isn’t equipped to handle it anyway.” Sam nodded, dipping his head slightly in submissive respect. He had his girlfriend’s head resting in his lap as he applied pressure to a chest wound, and Desmond sighed.

“Okay. There’s a huge hospital not far from here. Moderately wounded, get the more critical some care. Mild, you’re stuck here. Okay?” There was some murmuring among the group, mostly relieved comments or encouragement to more badly injured friends. “We need to hold this place long enough for Moussa and Lin to get back, and to regroup. Once we’re in a good position we’ll get out of this Hellhole.” 

“Where will we go?” A younger woman whimpered. She looked barely old enough to smoke, let alone fight in a millennia-old war. 

“I know of a place in Italy,” Desmond said carefully. “An old Assassin safe house. I don’t know if the Templars know about it or not, but right now it’s all we’ve got. It’s not... structurally sound, gotta admit, so it’s probably been abandoned since late 2012. If it’s even still standing that is.” 

“After this nightmare?” Charlie scoffed. “Sounds like a five-star hotel. Let’s get to security, yeah?”

“Sounds good to me.” They walked back out into the hall, Connor padding noiselessly on Desmond’s left and Charlie entirely oblivious to his presence on Desmond’s right. He was still holding his arm at a careful angle. “Dislocation?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I take a look?”

“Sure.” 

_Have you ever reset one of these before? _Connor asked.

_Just in the shoulder, _Desmond thought back. He was actually more concerned with his lack of concern than with the latest ancestor developments themselves, which was odd. And yet he found it impossible to actually be worried? It was weird. 

_I have. Just sift through my memories. _

_...Thank you?_

“This might hurt a little,” Desmond muttered aloud as he took Charlie’s hand and positioned his fingers correctly before expertly resetting the joint. Charlie yelped, snatching his arm back. “I lied. It hurts a lot.”

“No kidding,” Charlie whined. Connor nodded approvingly; Desmond actually _sensed _his approval coming from the part of his mind that he had designated as Connor, which was a little freaky to both see and feel at the exact same time. Especially since he shouldn’t have been seeing Connor to begin with, but again that was another matter. As if registering Desmond’s discomfort, Connor faded into nothingness.

When they reached the security room they found that the door was open; the bodies of guards were strewn across the floor and the monitors were locked with an Erudito hacking code that they had been given the access key to. No one was moving.

“Who came here?” Charlie asked. Desmond had flicked into Eagle Vision, detecting a faint golden pulse rapidly fading. He knelt onto his heels with a shuddering sigh as Emir very weakly tried to grasp his hand, suddenly sensing Ezio ‘owling’ beside him. He was radiating pain and guilt, and the unexpected severity of it made Desmond lose concentration. His EV faded back into solid reality; Emir’s struggling breath, the gleaming dark wetness covering his chest and issuing from several bullet holes. 

“M-Ment-”

“Shhh...” Desmond murmured soothingly, going the rest of the distance so that he and Emir locked fingers. “It’s okay. We did it. We can get them out of here. You can let go now, my friend.” Emir nodded, his skin unnaturally pale as the blood kept draining from his body. His eyes were beginning to glaze over, but they focused suddenly on a spot directly next to Desmond - coincidentally right where Ezio was. He smiled. 

“Huzur seninle olsun, öğretmen.”

“What?” Charlie asked. Desmond smiled, inhaling sharply to choke back a sob. With his own personal feelings about his friend amplified by Ezio’s concerning Yusuf it was difficult.

“Yusuf gurur duyardı. Ve Ezio da. Şimdi dinlen kardeşim,” he murmured with trembling voice as Emir’s fingers tensed slightly and then went limp in his own. Desmond closed his eyes and folded Emir’s hands across his chest, then stood. “We’ve lost too many people in this fight,” he sighed, rubbing his forehead. 

“I know,” Charlie muttered. “I never experienced it, obviously, but apparently Shahin was betrayed by a close friend and left to rot until the last of his days in a cell for coin. Templars and their ‘benevolent’ -emphasis on the air-quotes - deep pockets.” His eyes grew misty and he swiped at his nose. “Too many good men and women in a fight that we’ll never see the end of and it just makes no-” He broke off with a swear and ruffled his already hopelessly matted hair. 

“We uh... would you mind getting the systems up and running while I check in with the other teams? I’ll send someone down to keep watch in case any stragglers try to jump you. But we... we need to...”

Charlie’s gaze was steady. 

“Des.”

“Yeah?”

“Go find Avery. Both you guys need a hug after what happened tonight.”

“You’re a trooper.” Desmond’s gaze settled on Emir’s still form. “And I’ll have to organize a proper ceremony for everyone who... everyone we lost. See you later, Charlie.”

_Desmond..._

_...Come on, Ezio. _

_...Right. _

Ezio’s silvery form stood with a defeated sigh from his crouch, and he tread after Desmond as they walked through the halls. Sending someone to guard Charlie, they were then free to wander about looking for Avery. They found her munching on a granola bar, feet swinging back and forth from where she was sitting on a commons table watching everything around her with tired interest.

“You gotten that leg seen to yet?” Desmond asked. Avery grimaced, glancing at her right thigh with a sigh. It was unbandaged still, seeping thick clotting blood into heavy droplets onto the floor. “I’ll take that as a no. Stay put.” 

Casting about for a med kit, Desmond located what he was looking for and then came back to begin irrigating and cleaning. Avery whimpered as the sterilized cloth swiped gingerly into the injury and then withdrew, also wiping the skin directly around.

“Stitches?” She asked in a small voice. Desmond grimaced sympathetically, injecting painkiller or numbing agent - he really couldn’t tell - into the thigh just above the injury. 

“Stitches. But don’t worry. My ancestors were professionals. Plus, you don’t seem like the bikini type anyway.” 

“I’m the ‘crap sand got in my book’ type.”

“Called it.” 

“Will it hurt?” Avery asked. She was making a show of not looking at the injury. Desmond took a moment to thread the curved needle and then began to sew. “Des.”

“Mm?”

“Will it hurt?”

“Does it?”

“What?”

“Look.” Avery glanced down to see that he had already started, her eyes wide. 

“It feels weird, but... But I just thought you were trying to find a good spot to poke me with your fingertips or something. This numbing stuff is _good_.” 

“Mentor?” They both looked up as an elder Assassin - his name was Felix (maybe?) - approached. 

“...Yeah?” 

“I was... I was just wondering if there was anything left to do.” Desmond scanned him passively, frowning slightly when he noticed the thin but insanely deep gash to the lower arm. 

“Take a seat,” Desmond murmured as he went back to focusing on stitching Avery up. “I’ll deal with you next.” The man possibly named Felix did so obediently, running his fingers on his good hand through salt and pepper hair with a sigh. “You going home after this?”

“Don’t have a home to go back to,” Felix muttered. “I’ve been in this facility for six years, and before that I was a homeless Vet. I would have stayed in the marines if I hadn’t taken shrapnel to the chest. Assassins are the first real family I’ve had in a decade or two.” Desmond happened to look up and their eyes met. Felix was quietly scared. “I can stay, right? I don’t have to leave?” 

“I’m not in the habit of separating families,” Desmond replied softly as he tied off Avery’s stitches, applied a gauze pad with tape, and then began cleaning up his materials before moving on to his latest patient. “Everyone belongs here if they want to.” 

“Thank you kindly.” Felix winced as Desmond began irrigating his wound. “You’re pretty good at this.”

“Yeah? Well that’s what happens when every single one of your ancestors had to mend themselves on the run at some point in their lives. Hold still, and drink this.”

“How come you didn’t give _me _any?” Avery pouted as Felix smirked and took a long swig of the offered whiskey before Desmond started sewing.

“You’re underage,” Desmond retorted with a chuckle.

“In _America, _maybe. But this is _Spain _and so I should-”

“Can’t until you’re 16, and last time I checked you were two years too young.”

“Killjoy.”

“Nuisance. That feel better, Felix?” Desmond asked. Felix had been watching them with amusement.

“Yep. I’ve had worse, but they feel about the same when age catches up with you.” Desmond nodded distractedly in response, mentally punching the air triumphantly at having gotten the guy’s name right. His penchant for remembering names with faces from his bartending days wasn’t being wasted, at least. That was something. 

“Okay... All... Most... Done.” Desmond sat back from his project to admire his handiwork, frowning as he flicked into EV and noticing a small hairline fracture. “I’m gonna splint that just to be safe.”

“Be my guest. Anyone taken a look at your head yet?”

“Nope, and I don’t need it right now.”

“Uh huh. Would you be okay with accepting constructive criticism?”

“...I have a feeling I’m going to hear it whether I say yes or no so go ahead.”

“Get it checked out. Sooner, rather than later.” Desmond groaned, but he’d have been lying if he’d said that it didn’t feel good to have someone worry about _him _for a change. So, after finishing with his patch job, he submitted to letting Felix examine the spot on his head where he’d been hit by masonry. It was, apparently, caked with dried blood and deep but superficial - insofar as Desmond was willing to admit to anyone not a head-shrink - and required only a thorough cleaning and gauze bandage. When that was over Felix, with renewed confidence in his usefulness, went to see if anyone else needed patching up.

That left Desmond and Avery alone for the first time in several hours, and she shimmied over on the table edge to rest her head on his shoulder.

“Thanks,” she murmured. 

“For what?” 

“Not letting me go out there, like I wanted to. I um... it was bad, even in the tunnels. We lost a lot of people and I just-” 

“Shh,” Desmond whispered. Avery whimpered slightly and he draped an arm across her shoulders; she snuggled into his side and took a few deep breaths. “You’ll be okay kid. You’ll be okay.” 

“You’re pretty good at this big brother thing,” she said quietly. Desmond smiled sadly.

“Yeah, well... Claudia, Petruccio. Might not have been my own brother and sister but... still.” He stiffened slightly when he heard Ezio sigh reminiscently, forcing himself to relax again as Avery stiffened as well in response to his own tenseness. 

“You okay?” 

“...Not really. But um... give me a few days to sort myself out before asking again. Hit my head pretty hard, so maybe it’s temporary.”

“...What is?” Avery mumbled as she burrowed into his side again. “It’s okay if you don’t-”

“I _will _tell you, eventually I swear,” Desmond sighed. “Just... not right now.” 

“Promise?”

“Promise.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Huzur seninle olsun, öğretmen (Turkish)- I am at peace, teacher.
> 
> Yusuf gurur duyardı. Ve Ezio da. Şimdi dinlen kardeşim (Turkish)- Yusuf would be proud. Ezio too. Rest now brother.
> 
> REMINDER: I do not speak Turkish, so this has been run through Google Translate. If anyone knows if I got anything wrong please tell me and I will gladly fix the issue as soon as possible.


	28. An Apple A Day

It was about a day later when Moussa, Lin, and Cal came back wearing the dark and monotonous robes which had been handed out at the Templar ceremony because they had nothing underneath them but their psych pajamas, and while a person would receive strange looks for wearing a Renaissance coat and cowl they were less likely to have the police called than wearing the institutionalized and widely recognized garb of the mentally unstable. For that very reason the Assassins had taken shifts, one group consolidating their equipment and changing into the old hoods they’d found preserved in the tunnels while the other continued searching for Abstergo employees. 

They’d finally opened the Precursor site back up, a decision which allowed them to tend to their wounded and probably contributed to the saving of at least seven lives. Desmond had found an Assassin coat and cowl that was white as snow with crimson red needlework of Spanish Iberian Islamic design woven into the edges and hood peak but for the most part it was remarkably plain; Haytham had tutted, Edward had thought it looked classy, Ezio not classy enough, and Connor indifferent because it skewed too European for his aesthetic tastes. Altaïr was in love with it, naturally. It had been based on the Levantine standard and added to as access to fabric, ease of style making, and sewing material had improved. 

Charlie had selected a preferred tan base with navy highlights, and Avery a crimson with navy. Luke was still trying to pick something out.

But back to Moussa and Company. 

“It went well,” Moussa said immediately before Desmond had had a chance to open his mouth and form the question. They were standing in the commons because there really wasn’t anywhere else to assemble with such a large group, Lin looking about for her close friends and gaze settling on Emir’s still form laid to rest beside Nathan’s in a long line of their dead against one wall. Her expression turned from self-satisfied to crestfallen. 

“How so?” Mavis asked sourly. She was nursing a headache and had - apparently - a fear of being buried alive that hadn’t appreciated being sealed in the Precursor site. Moussa gently tapped Cal’s shoulder in a way that suggested he was simultaneously proud and skeptical of their latest convert. 

“Cal. He took out Alan Rikkin, and successfully retrieved the Apple.” There was a period of apprehensive silence. “Show them.” Cal hesitated for a bit before reluctantly digging into his robes - a little too long for Desmond to be comfortable with it because he didn’t trust them and they couldn’t afford any problems at the moment - and pulling out the Apple. Desmond winced as he felt the scar tissue in his right hand begin to tingle with pulsing electricity, shoving it deeper into his robes to hide the glow. The Apple itself appeared dormant, barely giving off any sort of golden energy in the slightest. That is, until Moussa did the thing.

The thing, in this instance, was to take the Apple and approach his Mentor with it. It immediately started to pulsate with its own energy, as if it were anticipating being held by someone it sensed possessed Precursor coding on his person. Murmuring broke out among those assembled, Moussa paused, and Cal tensed. His eyes had a hunted quality to them that suggested he had inherited his ancestor’s protectiveness over the artifact. He really was a carbon copy of Aguilar, and - Desmond suddenly noticed - he was wearing a set of customized hidden blades that could only have belonged to De Nerha. 

Moussa was looking at him questioningly. With the slightest of sighs Desmond pulled his right hand out of his robes to reveal the glowing white-gold scar tissue, cradling the Apple in it as Moussa set it down in his palm. Desmond inhaled slightly, closing his eyes for the briefest of moments before opening them again. He had reacted to the unexpected inrush of power, like a shot of adrenaline coursing through his body, and even though he had experienced it before it still took him by surprise. The Apple glowed with lengthening pulse as his heartbeat slowed down, warm in his hand and making the scar tissue tingle with what felt like static electricity. 

Altaïr was standing next to his right shoulder, Ezio his left. They were observing the artifact keenly, their years of interaction and expertise suddenly closer to the surface of the tide of memories jostling about in his head than anything else in there. 

_Be careful with that, _Ezio cautioned. Altaïr scoffed slightly.

_Care, yes. But don’t fear it. You can’t do anything with it if it can sense your unease. _

_To get something, it has to take something first, _Ezio argued. _It’s evil._

_I asked once if it would teach us or lead us to ruin_, Altaïr sighed concedingly. He was speaking directly to Desmond now. _And I had much to learn from it. If handled incorrectly it could be our downfall, true. But also a great source for good. Simply use your best judgement._

_Yes, or ours if that fails, _Ezio retorted. Altaïr sighed annoyedly through his nose and let out a slight huff while doing so. 

_Shut up,_ Desmond groaned internally. 

_Of course, Ucellino. _

“This is great work, Moussa. Cal. Lin.”

“Thank you, Dǎoshī,” Lin replied with a slight respectful bow. Cal suppressed a snort of contempt as Moussa copied her. Desmond fixed him with a look and handed the Apple back to Moussa. 

“Walk with me?” He asked in a pleasant but serious tone. Cal shrugged.

“Lead the way.”

_You should punch him in the larynx_, Edward muttered. Collective groans from most everyone else.

_For once I agree with you,_ Haytham sighed. 

_...Now I’m concerned on a number of levels._

Farther in to the facility, they approached Breakneck Ridge. Desmond stepped up on the edge and peered down into Madrid proper, Cal watching from farther back. 

“First place I went when I came here,” Cal commented. He fixed Desmond with a look. “Moussa encouraged suicide via jumping.”

“Probably did. He does that for most of the newbies that come through here. Doesn’t want Abstergo to get their claws into them.”

“Anyone listen?” 

“Only the ones who were once part of the Brotherhood. They knew what was at stake.” 

“I noticed that Nathaniel didn’t make it,” Cal added as if he hadn’t spoken. “He tried to kill me, so I can’t say I’m all that sorry to see him go.”

“Everyone wanted to kill you,” Desmond retorted sourly. “If he hadn’t done it, we would have had someone else try.” 

“You’re quite the cheery bunch around here. Know how to make a man feel welcome.” They locked gazes. 

“I would have killed you myself if it came down to it. Signed off on it in the first place.” Cal leaned against the wall, smirking.

“Right. Because you’re in charge.”

“Not by choice. They elected me and I didn’t get a vote. But I’ll do the best I can because they deserve better.” Desmond shot him a glare. “So believe me when I tell you that if you betray us, I _will _finish the job to protect my people.” Cal blinked, taking an involuntary step away from him. 

“All right, you don’t have to-”

“Oh but I do,” Desmond said in a quiet voice. “Because you’re you. And you’re a long ways away from Aguilar. So let me make this clear: I don’t trust you. You might have protected the Apple but that’s only because Aguilar persuaded you to.” 

“And what makes you think you can best me in a fight, huh?” Cal’s eyes were burning with a faint arrogant confidence and he took a few steps into Desmond’s personal space, drawing himself up to his full height and standing a few inches taller. Desmond shook his head slightly, unbending his knees and thrusting his shoulders back as he straightened his body out until they came up even. His natural inclination, after tending bar and not wanting to make the single girls going solo feel uncomfortable - as well as to appear less threatening so that punks wanting to cause trouble would underestimate him and give him the advantage - was always to appear smaller than he really was. It wasn’t in his personality to be threatening, so he didn’t bother looking it.

Even though he and Cal were the same height - and Cal was much broader in the shoulders than Desmond’s slight build allowed - it was enough to knock the overconfidence out of Cal’s demeanor. He cleared his throat uncomfortably when he heard the soft _snick _of Desmond’s left hidden blade sliding out of its holding position and backed off, getting the obvious message. Desmond smiled lightly, but it didn’t travel to his eyes.

“You’re new here, so I’m going to explain this in an easy way. Strength and size has nothing on skill. It’s the reason the Assassins have survived so long despite being heavily outnumbered and underfunded compared to the Templars. It’s also the reason we’re still alive after taking back this facility. But skill has nothing on experience, and when it comes to a comparison you’ve got less than a hundred years to draw from and only one ancestor. I’ve got around six hundred years, maybe a little more, and six ancestors plus my own training and that of an annoying engineer rattling around inside my head.” He dropped the smile. “Pick your battles very, _very _carefully. Because everyone in the commons has had over twenty Animus sessions, and you’ve only had three. Even the fourteen year old girl has more experience than you. Get over it, prove yourself, and you might make up for willingly selling us out in the first place. Okay?” 

“Clear as crystal,” Cal retorted through gritted teeth. 

-/\\-

“You’re looking very... Assassin-y,” Mavis commented awkwardly on his apparel as she and Desmond happened to bump into each other getting things ready for leaving. Desmond smirked in response. “What’s with the gauze?”

“Falling masonry. No concussion. Got lucky.” Mavis eyed him appraisingly. 

“What aren’t you telling me?” She said. He opened his mouth to protest and she put a hand up to stop him. “Oh, come on. I know you too well. Charlie may be your best mate but I’m your therapist, and there’s a lot of things a man will tell his therapist that he won’t his friends or family. Something’s up. Spill.” 

“I’m... seeing and hearing my ancestors ever since I got hit on the head,” Desmond admitted. “Not like it’s the Bleeding Effect, where they’re from an actual memory either. This is... like they’re ghosts or something, speaking directly to me about things currently happening in my life. And no one else can see them, and I’m getting kind of weirded out by it.”

“Regression,” Mavis said simply. “It’s been an issue ever since the Animus was invented. If you manage to properly deal with and get past the Bleeding Effect, this is basically Level 2. The psychological and medical communities know about it, of course, but they can’t develop any treatments for it. These ghosts you see are hallucinations, the voices a previously-unknown form of schizophrenia. Regression, to simplify, is a direct mix between certain characteristics of Disassociative Identity Disorder and Schizophrenia, but so different in the combination that they can’t figure out a treatment for it. Because it’s too similar to other mental illnesses but different enough - and unique enough for each individual case - that they can’t figure it out. Known symptoms that can present in both disorders are always exaggerated and twisted, added upon, until both become something entirely new and somewhat terrifying. The perfect mixture of psychological chaos.”

“You seem to know a lot about that,” Desmond remarked curiously. Mavis sniffed.

“Well I should. I’m a psychological therapist.”

“Wait, you’re a psychological therapist _and _a physical therapist?”

“Remember that picture you saw a few weeks ago? Platinum hair, golden green eyes, freckles covering almost every area of pasty skin?” Mavis asked quietly. Desmond nodded. “That was my cousin. His name was Peter Zaman, but everyone called him ‘Pippin’ because he was obsessed with Lord of the Rings. And he was the best older cousin ever. 

“We were... so proud when he joined the RAF. But then he went off to fight, and he was severely injured while out on maneuvers. I was six credit hours away from graduating Magna Cum Laude with a degree in computer code-building, and when home on holidays I heard my Aunt mention in passing that they didn’t have enough money for the intensive care Pippin needed when he came home. So I dropped out of technical university and transferred into one focused on human health and sciences, started from scratch save my Gen. Eds., and then became a Physical Therapist. When I got certified I did his at-home therapy for free.” 

“But he didn’t get better,” Desmond said softly as Mavis paused to draw in a shaky breath and swipe away an angry tear. 

“No. He did, but the progress was slow. And I didn’t notice that the slower the progress he made, the faster his depression grew. He’d never been provided with a psychological therapist, and it had never been suggested that he might need one. Long story short, I went over to my aunt and uncle’s house for a session one day and found that he had purposefully overdosed on his pain medication. And I had to wonder: If I had noticed, would he still be alive today? I still wonder sometimes. So I started volunteering at a nearby Veteran’s center and got ample opportunity to interact with other people like Pippin, and I saw the difference the therapists were making in their lives...

“I took a job at a large hospital as a PT and worked my way through a psychological therapy degree at a nearby college, then did free counseling at the Vet clinic whenever I could after I got my certification.” Mavis’ eyes glinted with anger. “The clinic enrolled in a study about anti-depressants, sponsored by...”

“Abstergo.”

“Precisely. And the nearby Abstergo clinic completely took it over after a few months, meaning that our patients transferred over for the study. I checked in a few weeks later, after doing a stint with the VSO - America has the equivalent in the PeaceCorps I suppose - and found that most of our patients were listed as either deceased or had dropped out. I asked why, and got nothing but bureaucratic nonsense. No one could give me a straight answer, so I began some digging, using that coding degree that I almost finished to hack about in their mainframe, and... found out a lot about Abstergo that I had never known before. Long story short Erudito noticed me and brought me in, and I’ve been working to take Abstergo out ever since. But it all started with Pippin.” 

Mavis looked him straight in the eyes, her gaze deep and piercing. 

“So yes, Desmond. I am a physical and psychological therapist both.”

“Considering how many people we’ve got with both physical _and _psychological issues from the Animus that might not be a bad thing,” Desmond murmured as he looked over his shoulder and noted Edward observing the activity of packing up around them with interest.

“Just let me know if it gets worse.”

“Desmond!” Moussa called, coming up to him with a concerned expression on his face. 

“What’s up?” Desmond asked, turning away from Mavis with a nod of acknowledgement as she continued to leaf through a collection of preserved documents. Moussa motioned for him to follow to a less busy and open area.

“What exactly are we going to do with this?” He asked. Desmond sighed as he brought the Apple out of the folds of his robes. “It keeps... whispering to me. Sort of. I don’t like it.” 

“Give it here,” Desmond muttered. “My ancestors are used to walking around with these things, and I handled one myself for a few weeks. It doesn’t bother me.”

“Then you can have it,” Moussa said with a sigh of relief as he handed the artifact over. Desmond grimaced as his scar tissue glowed again, tingling like a thousand ants were crawling underneath the skin. He cleared his throat with mildly loud discomfort as he shoved the artifact into an inner pocket in his robes, shaking out his right hand fingers to get the electrical feeling out of them. “That must be annoying.”

“You don’t know the half of it. But yeah, it kinda sucks.” He noticed Devon, their local motor enthusiast, meander by. “Hey Dev. How’s the transportation coming along?”

“Hey. Uh... well long story short Abstergo’s got a small armada of discreetly-armored vehicles from motorcycles to semi-trucks for us to take our pick from, and the best part? They left the keys.”

“Okay, that’s awesome.” Desmond had to chuckle when Devon looked crestfallen. The man shrugged. 

“I guess. I just- I really wanted to hotwire something, y’know? My skills are rusty.”

“Yes, so handy to have a professional car thief in our group,” Moussa sighed. “Nice rags, by the way. Very stylish.”

“Isn’t it just?” Devon retorted proudly. He made a quick turn, just slow enough to show off his ebony black robes with the shimmering golden trim and silver silk design patterns. “Very classy. Chic goth, I suppose. Right up my alley. Our Mentor’s? Not so much.”

“Hey,” Desmond protested as Moussa - who had found a deep forest green with soft white wood-colored stitching and design - snickered. “They might be plain but no one can accuse me of being a peacock, now can they? Besides, understatement is in this year.”

“No it’s not,” Moussa replied almost sympathetically, as if he were pitying his poor taste in fashion. The key word being ‘almost.’ 

“I- you- shut up,” Desmond laughed, pretending to be mortally offended but not managing to make it convincing. He smoothed out a few creases in the snowy fabric conscientiously and cleared his throat, suddenly becoming much more subdued. “Ceremony’s in about an hour. You find a good place?”

“We can’t even bury them,” Devon muttered sourly. Moussa murmured agreement and sighed. 

“I did,” he said. “There’s a clearing not far from here where we can hold a decent service. And there’s no risk of setting anything aflame there.”

“Good.” Desmond ran his fingers through his hair, frowning. “I’ll uh, I’ll see you there. Something I need to look into first.”

“Sure thing.”

Desmond found himself a secluded corner and ran his hand more carefully over his scalp, particularly the area where he’d been hit by falling masonry.

_It’s healed, _Haytham remarked with interest. _Funny that. You carry around a Precursor artifact and your wound is nonexistent in record time._

_The Apple doesn’t do things like that, _Ezio protested immediately. _It’s an object of knowledge._

_Depends, _Altaïr chipped in reservedly. _It is sometimes possible for the bearer to draw energy from the device. We do it unconsciously, however. Why do you think you were so agile in your later life? Or I myself, for that matter. We were scaling buildings long after our sprinting days should have ended. The Apple gives strength and vitality to the bearer. We in turn give our energies - both mental and physical - unto the artifact. We feed off each other. _

_So it would be entirely possible for it to have helped Desmond to heal, si?_

_...Balaa. It’s conceivable._

“I think I preferred things better when I could only sometimes see but not hear you,” Desmond groaned, clutching at the side of his head with a hiss of pain. He was getting a migraine. “I get it already. An Apple a day-”

_-Keeps the doctor away, _Edward finished brightly. He felt apologetic when Desmond growled with pain again. _Sorry._

The pain began easing off as the voices fell silent, something Desmond was immensely grateful for. He took a few moments to catch his breath, but it was short-lived when there was the echoing sound of erupting gunfire. 

“Really?” He muttered incredulously. “Really. No rest for the weary.”

“We found the last of the Abstergo employees,” Charlie explained as he went running past to grab up a discarded semi-automatic. “Cornered them, but they barricaded themselves in one of the constitutional rooms.”

“I’m on my way,” Desmond sighed. He picked up a crossbow without really thinking about it and dashed out after a vast majority of other alerted Assassins. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:  
Balaa - Yeah (Arabic)


	29. Bird's Eye View

The Abstergo employees were mostly lab techs, Animus operators, etc. But there were a few that belonged to security, and they were putting up one Hell of a fight. 

Desmond winced as a bullet whizzed past his ear, embedding itself in the upper arm of the person directly behind him. They screamed, Desmond ducked, and with quick aim a crossbow bolt was protruding from the shooter’s right eye socket. He was beginning to think that he might keep the crossbow. It felt natural in his hand and was easy to use, and it had the benefit of being almost entirely silent. And unlike guns - which Desmond had only trained with for the better part of a year before escaping from the compound - Ezio was extremely experienced with using one, which meant that Desmond was too. 

Backing away from the fight to catch a quick breather after having the air slammed out of his lungs from a flying object to the stomach, Desmond noticed one of the Animus technicians making a break for it and set off in pursuit. His stride lengthening, robes billowing out behind him and his quarry like a beacon of gold energy before him, he dimly sensed Altaïr running beside him and matching him step for step. 

“Where’s everyone else?” Desmond panted sarcastically. Altaïr shot him a grin, golden eyes bright with the thrill of the chase. 

_We decided to take turns after noticing that repeated multiple exposure hurt you._

“...I’m not sure whether I’m relieved or weirded out by the fact that my other schizophrenic personalities are considerate of my well-being.” Altaïr let out a slight chuckle, light and airy; from having access to his memories Desmond was well aware that he only made that sound when he was truly relaxed and carefree, and as such it was rare. “Enjoying yourself are you?”

_In a manner of speaking. Now, pay attention or he’ll get away. _

Desmond sped up, rounded a corner, and immediately had to throw himself onto the floor as the technician let off two or three rounds with a pistol. Springing directly from a crouch into a leap, he folded his legs with his knees thrust out and his toes nearly touching; right arm outspread as his left moved backward with the blade sliding out to prepare for a stabbing thrust. A perfect aerial assassination, his feet landed squarely against the technician’s chest and the blade plunged directly into the right side of the throat where the carotid artery was. Desmond heard a simultaneous gurgle of the victim choking on his own blood along with two cracks: one when his ribs fractured and the other when his skull connected with the floor. He slipped neatly onto the side off of the technician’s body, crouching back on his heels and making certain to keep his knife lodged in the puncture to prevent immediate fatal blood loss. 

“Sorry about this,” Desmond murmured respectfully. He happened to meet the direct gaze of scared, wide blue eyes and sighed. And then... It was almost, almost as if- 

Desmond backed away from the Animus technician, gasping in panicked breaths as he tripped over his own feet and slipped on the ground slick with his victim’s blood. The blade out of the injury, it flowed heavily and freely. He watched the light fade from the man’s eyes. And suddenly he understood. 

What the Animus had done, by isolating Desmond’s ancestor and their target from the rest of the outside world for those exclusive little chats that felt so painfully out of place, was compensate for a shard of memory data that the system was incapable of comprehending. His ancestors would speak with their targets in the moments before they died - some with hidden blades in their throats miraculously finding voice enough to spit in their killer’s face - taking the time to experience conversations that lasted minutes. 

Desmond had always felt... weird, was the only word for it, when he would relive those memories. They just felt... _wrong_. They were all wrong. Rebecca had speculated endlessly with insane theories that were aimed more at lightening the mood more than figuring things out, and Shaun had openly scoffed at the entire thing. 

‘What a nice little conversation,’ he’d say. ‘So nice and relaxed with a horde of guards advancing on your location.’ 

Even Lucy had shrugged it off as a weird Animus glitch where data had gotten mixed up and corrupted; in fact, Desmond had been the only one disturbed by those sequences. His father had sighed impatiently when he’d tried to bring it up, mutter something about deviation between Desmond’s DNA and his ancestor’s that shredded the experience and the Animus was simply doing its best to stitch it back together in a way that made logical sense. 

But gazing into the empty eyes of the technician, Desmond knew. The conversations that had taken minutes to relive through the Animus had lasted only milliseconds in real life, but the machine had been designed by people who didn’t understand. It did the best that it could. 

The victims didn’t defy reality by suddenly getting up and walking around as they died, and they didn’t open their mouths to speak with a knife embedded in their throats. The truth was far more interesting and - for Desmond - infinitely more terrifying. Unlike Eagle Vision, which was borderline unnatural because everyone was capable of it if they practiced hard and long enough, this wasn’t even remotely human in origin. His ancestors hadn’t been talking to their marks as they died. Rather...

_They had read their final thoughts. _

Which was what had just happened to Desmond, and he had to try hard to keep himself from losing it. He’d never actually had a mark before that he had to take out; a shot from across the room, a power blast from the Apple. A well-placed slice during the busy heat of combat. Even his fight with Cross was an act of self-preservation in a moment of desperate need to rescue his father but this man was a mark, and he was different. And aside from reading the phrase ‘Oh God oh God is this it’ repeated over and over again, Desmond had also registered the thought of wanting to know if the second team was still okay or not because the tech’s girlfriend was on it. They were in a private isolation suite off of the medical wing. Images had flashed briefly through his mind of long, familiar corridors and white rooms, deep chestnut hair and soft fern eyes. 

_It’s different the first time, _Altaïr remarked sympathetically. _You’re handling it a lot better than most; they usually throw up. _

_I’m going to put that down to having sort of already gone through it with you guys_.

“Desmond!?” Charlie shouted. Desmond gently closed the man’s eyes.

“Requiescat in pace,” he whispered before standing and racing back to the main group. Charlie had sounded vaguely terrified. “What is it?” He asked sharply. 

“Oh. We thought- well, you skedaddled and we had no idea where you were, and until we get that Apple to a safe hiding place we kinda want to keep an eye on you for obvious reasons...” Desmond sighed, pinching his nose in exasperation.

“Fine. Look, there’s a second team out there. Isolation suite, med wing.” Charlie blinked.

“How do you know that?” 

“Uh... In...terrogation.” A helpless gesture toward the recently deceased tech, and a snicker from Edward.

_Nice save._

_Shut up Jack Sparrow._

_There should be a ‘Captain’ in there somewhere._

_Shut up._

Charlie shrugged, unconcerned.

“Okay. We’ll take a look. Devon was freaking out, by the way.”

“What else is new? Hey, where’s Moussa?”

“Still getting the arrangements for the ceremony prepared. Left us to take care of the stragglers. Experienced and all that, no need for a babysitter.” 

“Mm. Good. Let’s take the last team out so we can get out of here by dusk. Too risky to leave when it’s still light.” 

It was relatively simple, taking care of the last stragglers. Since they knew where they were it was only a matter of neutralizing them swiftly and efficiently. When that was over, they returned to the Precursor site to finish up. As soon as it was dark, they left. 

Desmond took one step out the front doors and paused, savoring the sweet taste of fresh air mingled with car exhaust on the parking lot breeze. Open space stretched out before him, a veritable sea of cracked asphalt and fading sunset reflection mirages. About a ten minute walk from the facility was a stretch of undeveloped land with barren cracked soil and a few clumps of scraggly browning grass dotted here and there, and it was here that they piled up a large quantity of plywood from the nearby construction site and built it into a series of pyres. They couldn’t bury their dead; even then, their DNA could have been of use to Abstergo. As a funeral, of sorts, it was the best they could do in terms of proper ceremony, and Desmond found himself with the unpleasantly solemn task of giving last rites. He felt rather than turned to bother and see Altaïr, Ezio, Connor, and Edward beside him offering silent encouragement, and with access to their own memories of like events the words came easily to him. 

The very last rays of the sun exploded out from behind the cloud bank as Moussa and Luke set the pyres ablaze, and their company watched for a time until the blaze had begun to smolder. Knowing that someone would soon notice the smoke they departed for good, striking back to the facility to get into the transport and drive off toward Italy. Desmond was crossing his fingers that Monteriggioni was still a safe place for Assassins and didn’t hold out much hope, but he didn’t know what else they could do at the moment. While getting supplies was a priority, precedence dictated that they first find suitable shelter to hunker down and regroup before raiding any Abstergo warehouses looking for gear and rations. Things weren’t looking all that optimistic, and Desmond had a hard time ignoring the tempting whispers the Apple was making urging him to scry - as it were - into the future looking for a path that might lead to a decent outcome. He knew all too well from Altaïr and Ezio that the future changed quickly, always in motion, and that in attempting to influence it one could easily end up causing it. 

No. Better to live life free of destined intent and take things as they came, planning only as was allowed by limited insight. The Apple always took as much as it gave, and Desmond was all too aware of the fact that they couldn’t stand to lose anything else at the moment. 

So he settled into the passenger seat with the gps system and occasionally offered Charlie some pointers as they drove deep into the night, the head of a small convoy of trucks labeled clearly with the Abstergo name brand. About four hours later they did the equivalent of a Chinese Fire Drill and switched roles, which allowed Charlie to get some shut-eye while Desmond became accustomed to life behind the wheel of the U-Haul sized vehicle. It wasn’t the first he’d driven, obviously, and he doubted it would be the last, but he couldn’t help but wish for something a little more... maneuverable. 

A quick glance in the rear view mirror showed Avery fast asleep, Mavis working diligently on something on a laptop that most likely involved covering their digital gps tracks. Desmond was starting to appreciate having her with them, even if it meant tolerating her ire for the sake of much-needed technical expertise. Devon, Luke, Jack, and Charity were bringing up the rear of the group, and Moussa had opted for the center with Lin, Cal and a spirited Sandra who seemed to have put the fear of God in their latest recruit. It was a good idea to keep Sandra and Cal together, then. Good planning on Moussa’s part; well-played. Desmond was prepared to let Moussa handle his Novice in his own way-

...Oh. He really _was_ getting into the role of Mentor now, wasn’t he?

It was the duty of Mentor to approve presented Novices their in-field teachers, to approve the appointment of Initiates to the rank of Novice, of Novice to Assassin, and finally Assassin to Dai - or Master. He sighed when he realized that none of the escapees from Abstergo had been properly initiated into the Order, resolving to grant appropriate rank when they all got the chance to indulge in a little pomp and circumstance. Of course, the traditions were what held them together at present and they could not be ignored. It was still a somewhat sobering revelation, though. Authority seemed to suit him well, even if the fitting was a tad uncomfortable, and the sooner he got a Council set up to help delegate internal affairs the better for his ease of mind and conscience. It wasn’t as if the Council would replace the Mentor, no. Most everyone had unanimously agreed that they wanted to run things using the Levantine/Florentine government structure, which had one established official leader and a council of secondary leaders - with a high council member to replace the Mentor in the event of unexpected death or when the Mentor was away on a mission - and the appointment of Mentor had to be approved by all Order members who had reached Assassin rank. 

_Politics,_ Edward sighed. _Who needs it anyway?_

_You are, of course, aware of what happened to Nassau without even the semblance of a governing structure? _Haytham retorted wearily. Connor just sighed. 

_It’s a loose system that allows for improvement and adaptation to the changing times, _Ezio explained patiently, as one would do with a small child. _That way everyone qualified has a say but complex management that makes things run smoothly is still carried out. _

_Desmond is trying to pay attention to the road, _Altaïr reminded calmly. Desmond, for his part, merely gritted his teeth as the growing headache behind his eyes made it difficult to concentrate on what he was doing. However, he couldn’t stop himself from wondering something.

_So... just you five, then. No Clay, no Aquilus? _There was a period of searching silence.

_Seems so, _Altaïr murmured. _I wouldn’t worry._

_Yes, it appears that your interaction with Aquilus was far too brief and that the manner in which Clay ingrained himself into your mind did not allow for the formation of consciousness, _Connor added. _Why that means Haytham is present escapes me._

_Ah, yes. Pleasant company indeed, _Haytham retorted drily. Desmond jerked the wheel as he realized he had drifted too close to the edge of the road and there were a series of murmured apologies. _...We’ll leave you alone now._

_Appreciate it, _Desmond sighed mentally in exasperation. _Why me?_

There was the feeling of stifled scrabbling in his head, kind of like the itch of suppressed thought, which gave him the impression of someone having a hand slammed over their mouth to keep them quiet, and he couldn’t help but chuckle slightly at the imagery (as it had most likely been Edward). The chuckle faded into a frown.

...He needed serious psychiatric attention. 


	30. When in Rome

The small armada of stolen Abstergo trucks rumbled to a halt on a side road near to Monteriggioni and Desmond groaned happily as he slid out of his seat to pace around and stretch cramped muscles. 

_Home, _Ezio sighed in his mind. Desmond hummed in agreement, closing his eyes and turning his face into the wind that carried the sounds and scents of a past life. 

“Happy?” Mavis asked. Her voice was dripping with amusement. 

“Sono tornato all'inizio,” Desmond murmured. He felt a strong hand grip his shoulder in a gesture of cheerful anticipation before Ezio’s ghostly form began moving through the sleeping city with long, purposeful strides. 

_So this is Italy then, _Connor murmured thoughtfully. _How do you tell the places apart? It looks so similar to Spain..._

_Practice, my dear Connor, practice makes perfect, _Haytham replied with an amused attitude. _And besides, they look quite different when you’ve lived there for an extended period of time. Both Spain and Italy happen to have been influenced heavily by Roman culture so certain regions will look eerily similar to one another depending on which you visit. _

_Oh. _

_Yes, and others will look nothing like the other, _Edward added. _It’s all about which region was invaded by which other cultural influence in the past in Europe. _

_That’s... Depressing. _

_Guys, can I just enjoy being home with Ezio for a few moments? _Desmond sighed internally. Blessedly, they fell silent and the pressure headache that had been building eased off. Sighing gratefully, he moved down the road toward the front gates and sensed rather than saw that Avery and Charlie were following right behind. 

“Place has seen some damage,” Charlie whistled as they passed a sizeable cannonball crater. 

“Cesare made sure the Assassins never forgot the Borgia,” Desmond muttered, grimacing as images of the attack exploded behind his eyes. “Killed Uncle Mario right in front of Ezio just because he wanted to. Rodrigo was furious with him for bringing the Assassins down on their heads in Rome.” 

“We going there next to tie off loose ends?”

“Don’t see why not. We should look for remnants of the Bureau located on Tiber Island. Most of the old places were demolished, abandoned, or sold into neutral hands over the years whenever the Templars got close, but in older cities like this there’s usually something still left.” 

“So, what exactly are we doing here at Monteriggioni then?” Avery muttered with a tired yawn as she trudged up to knock his left shoulder with her right. Desmond shrugged, scratching at the back of his neck. 

“Take a look for any clues pertaining to the Assassins, catch our breaths, formulate a plan.” A pause, followed by soft-spoken words. “Find our way home.” 

“I don’t know who these people are,” Avery admitted nervously. “But I know my family, and those are the people standing beside me _now_. _That’s _home to me.”

“Ditto,” Charlie murmured subduedly. “And... Des, I wasn’t all that sure how to tell you this until now, but... I don’t think our brothers and sisters following us will take kindly to the direction of a Mentor that isn’t you.”

“Even if it’s my dad?” Charlie’s eyes narrowed and then focused on the scar over Desmond’s mouth. Desmond winced, rubbing at the nape of his neck again. “Fair point. Guess he doesn’t have the best character reference where this lot are concerned.” 

“Oh,” Avery gasped. She’d stopped at the entrance to the small city, eyes wide as she took in the historic architecture interlaced almost seamlessly with modern characteristics. 

“Yeah,” Desmond agreed before smiling. “Be it ever so humble...” 

They made their way with quiet, measured steps toward the villa. Desmond was surprised to see that it was only halfway through reconstruction, seeing as it had already been begun back in 2012, but he supposed that the all-too common problem of money having been stolen from the building funds and it having had to be postponed had taken place. He was immeasurably grateful for that; no one would be around to disturb them while they got their bearings. 

Their path took them toward the back and they slipped into the crumbling interior of what had once been the office; while the team had closed the hidden door behind them when they’d left for Juno’s Temple, it was still accessible and Desmond was grateful for small mercies when he remembered the horrible experience of having to wade through Renaissance sewers to get it open the last time. Soft gasps of amazement echoed through the stone tunnel as they descended the steps into the Vault. Incandescent torchlight shone on smooth, aged marble sculptures of their founding predecessors and there was soft murmuring at the skill that had been put into each one. 

_Pretentious, isn’t it?_ Haytham asked amusedly. Altaïr’s ghostly image was frowning at his statue before turning to glare at Ezio, who shrugged sheepishly.

_It was here before me, _he defended weakly. Desmond rolled his eyes at all of them and sent Charlie out to tell the others they could come down. 

-/\\-

The space was crowded, really crowded, but c’est la vie. Utilizing what they had available didn’t leave them much room to be picky.

Within three days Mavis had gotten power and electricity down to them from the construction site. Moussa had procured supplies pertaining to living arrangements, and for the most part everyone was okay with sneaking up to the small construction office that had been set up in a nearby building for their showers and toiletry needs. 

After a week of staying there Jack came up to Desmond and told him that he’d made arrangements with a nearby rest home to take in their patients, no questions asked. Desmond had no idea how he’d managed that but, considering he was Erudito, that was probably for the best. 

The extra strain of caring for invalids whose needs could not easily be satisfied in their current living situation removed, the general mood of the group as a whole lightened. Desmond found time to sort out how he wanted to run things; he directed certain problems to some key lieutenants who in turn reported to him so that he wasn’t overwhelmed. Moussa was in charge of accommodation concerns. In a different life he would have made a wonderful landlord. Mavis and Jack concurrently handled any and all medical issues and Luke and Charlie handled security. Charity, the third member of the Erudito set and resident tech guru, had been helping people discreetly find out what had happened to their families when they’d gone missing. 

Avery was really the only one who didn’t have a true set job, but people came to her anyway. Desmond got the sense that she wasn’t happy with the situation, but he really wasn’t willing to send a fifteen year old girl into the thick of whatever it was they were facing and putting her into a position of authority when that happened. 

She’d been livid when he’d taken a small team comprised of Lin, Cal, and Charlie to the Italian Abstergo complex he’d been held captive in in 2012 looking for technology and supplies in general and left her behind.

-/\\-

Rain was bucketing down in droves as Desmond crept along the roof of a building nearby his mark. They were in Arezzo, not far from Sienna and thus Monteriggioni, and the dark night of the decently-sized former Medicean fortress was wrapped around them like a cloak. He adjusted his damp 16th century Spanish Assassin’s robes and wished fervently for a hoodie, hoping that they could at least find body armor in this place. 

He hadn’t exactly been able to get a good look at the place the first time around, and the second time around he’d been too busy trying to take out Vidic and rescue his father to really stop and take inventory. This time, the main concern was stealth. Their group was large, under-equipped, and exposed. They couldn’t afford to draw attention to themselves, which meant no killing and in general as little interaction with personnel as possible. Charity had hacked the blueprints and had quickly located several storage vaults; Desmond had taken special interest in the Subject Archives and had directed Charlie to take Lin and get the other equipment while he and Cal caused havoc in the mainframe and ‘patient’ data. 

For once, Cal looked more than happy to follow his lead on something. 

So, an uneasy peace between them as they scouted the building from one side and Charlie and Lin scouted from the other. 

“This where you were held the first time?” Cal whispered. Desmond nodded, displacing some of the water that had accumulated in the folds of his cowl. 

“My father was brought here as well,” he replied quietly. “I had to rescue him, and killed the head of the Animus project at that time. His name was Warren Vidic.” He sighed. “And now their security is through the roof.”

“Did you go in stealthily?”

“Nah. They were expecting me and wanted the Apple of Eden my team had found. I walked right through the front door.” Cal smirked at the visual and hummed appreciatively.

“So, on the bright side, we don’t have to worry about them patching up any weaknesses you exposed the first time around.” 

“True.” There was a pause. “I wonder how Charlie and Lin are getting on.”

“A priority should be securing easily-movable forms of communication,” Cal muttered, shifting in annoyance as chill water dripped down his back. 

“That and body armor, technology, medical supplies. Hopefully we can grab some funds on the cash stick Charity gave us.”

“It would be a good idea to find the locations of the other more remote Abstergo facilities while we’re here too. That way if we can’t get something here...”

“...we can get it from somewhere else,” Desmond summarized with a soft, approving smile. “Good thinking. We’ll make an Assassin of you yet.”

“I’m not a follower,” Cal snapped as he bristled. Despite himself, Desmond laughed. 

“What, and the rest of us are?” At the other man’s confused look he elaborated. “We’re all rebels, misfits, outcasts. We belong with the Assassins because we don’t belong anywhere else. Our ancestors joined to be a part of something bigger than themselves. To seek knowledge. To learn to fight. To correct past wrongs. Because it was a higher calling. Because they were born into it. Whatever the reason, they were there like we are right now. I’m not asking you to follow in Aguilar’s footsteps, okay? Look, I get it. Everyone here does. We’re here because of what blood we carry. 

“That doesn’t mean we have to stay. We make our own paths, and sometimes that means leaving something that no longer or never worked for us. Figure out what you want, Cal. There’s a place with the Assassins if you want it, but we won’t force you to stay.” 

Desmond turned back to watching for the guard change, leaving Cal to stare at him slack-jawed. 

“You-”

“Got a window. Let’s move.” 

As one they vaulted off of the roof and into the bushes, crouching low as they crept up to the security perimeter. Gravel was a wonderful distraction, Desmond conceded, as he threw some pebbles at a nearby window. The night watch went to investigate. Desmond and Cal promptly slipped past, avoiding the cameras with ease. 

They moved to scale the wall, finger and toe tips finding all the minute cracks and ledges and using them to propel themselves upward toward the exec’s office balcony. Hauling themselves over the safety railing, Desmond bouncing lightly as a cat on his toes and Cal falling with a dull, muted thud onto his heels. 

The world faded to gray as Desmond flicked into Eagle Vision, certain objects shimmering more brightly than others but nothing in particular jumping out at them. He began fiddling determinedly with the lock, noting the alarm attached and cursing. Fortuitously, Clay’s electrical engineer training and subsequent hacking skills from his Assassin training came to light. 

“I’m in,” he whispered. Cal made a small noise of grudgingly-impressed approval as they eased the door open, mindful of potential squeaky hinges, and slipped into the darkened room.

The office was huge. It was dominated in the center by a large oak desk and two plush armchairs seated before it; thick carpeting muffled any and all noise they might have made, and the clock next to the owner of the desk’s picture frame of a college graduate made soft, muted ticking noises. Despite himself, Desmond hummed _Potter Puppet Pals _in his head and stoutly ignored the snickering from his ancestors. Cal, more surprisingly, hummed it quietly aloud in a barely-discernible whisper under his breath. They exchanged a look of tense amusement before Desmond slipped into the desk chair and logged on to the computer after bypassing the shoddy security arrangements. 

...Who actually made their password ‘Password1!’ anyway? 

“Oh,” the pair breathed as their shoulders slumped in defeat. The desktop was a mess of unsorted Word and Excel documents. 

“This... might take a while,” Cal muttered. He frowned. “Could we just steal the hard drive and...”

“We don’t want anyone to know we were actually more than just corporate saboteurs,” Desmond reminded him. “Stealing the hard drive lets them know we mean serious business, and it’s organized enough that they might think we’re Erudito or with the Assassins.”

“But we’re kind of both right now, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, but the less they know about us the better.” 

“Mm. Well, then maybe we should move on to the network servers.”

“My thoughts exactly.” 

The corridors were eerily silent as they moved stealthily around the edges of the cctv camera paths, moonlight filtering silver-blue and ghostly through tall windows. It was so silent that Desmond could hear his own blood pumping through his veins and, to his great discomfort, he realized that he could hear Cal’s heartbeat too. Faint, almost impossible, but there all the same. 

His senses were going super-alert recently. It was all on par with what Mavis had told him about his high percentage of Precursor DNA, but it freaked him out. 

He schooled his body language when he caught Cal glancing at him in his 180° peripheral vision and decided to panic over that later, once they’d got the job done. 

The server room was cool, chill even, with perceptible waves of heat rolling off of the large technology blocks that were emitting relentless electric humming and tiny blinking lights. They sliced their way in carefully, eyes on leaving no evidence of tampering aside from the theft Charlie and Lin were currently committing elsewhere, and rifled through the files. Desmond carefully applied the credit stick Charity had given him when they’d got into the financials; they exchanged a wicked grin as they hooked themselves up to two of the infinite off-shore shell company accounts and established a permanent connection to the funds. He then cloned all of the Subject 1-17 patient data on the Animus servers, moving on to clone the Sample 17 data they’d collected after his ‘autopsy,’ and all pertinent data pertaining to the current conflict with the Assassins and what the Templar’s were currently up to. Finally, they copied out the map with the Abstergo facilities on it (registered company, warehouse, clinic, etc). 

Desmond was just about to get out of the servers when something caught his attention. He let out a low whistle as he speed-read the data on Layla Hassan, smirking at some of the trouble she’d put them through. He copied any files related to her, to this strange Dr. Álvaro Gramática, to Sigma Team and Violet de Costa. Connections to an Otso Berg, who apparently had survived an attack in London after a failed attempt by the Assassins to retrieve the Shroud of Eden. 

On that note, Desmond dug even further into the files despite the risk of discovery and found the Precursor data. Collected from dig sites, probable locations of artifacts, and old, sealed temples went in. 

They ended up filling up two terabyte portable hard drives by the time they carefully eased out and went about the process of covering their tracks. Clay would be proud his skills had been put to such productive use. 

Charlie and Lin were waiting for them in the loading bay, their truck pulled up and waiting to be loaded. The small group quickly stuffed the U-Haulesque vehicle full of body armor, large spools of what Charlie said were a prototype fiber stronger, lighter, and more flexible than Kevlar, and a special sewing machine to be able to use it. Added to this were a small cache of guns and ammo, night vision specs, portable generators, and more food supplies. The piece de resistance, though, were the camping and digging sets for potential historical archaeological expeditions in the area. 

-/\\-

They moved to Rome shortly after their little liberation from the Arezzo Abstergo, abandoning the larger trucks they’d gotten from Madrid and modifying the smaller U-Haul and SUV types at a shady mechanic place that Devon knew (it really was handy to have a professional European carjacker in your ranks) into a completely unrecognizable set of vehicles complete with ‘registered’ license plates and paint color changes into nondescript grays and blacks. 

As expected, the Tiber Island Assassin Bureau from the old days of the Order was no longer functioning. The district it had been built under had been updated and the cellars they’d met in turned into a basement, but Desmond knew better than to assume that the few hidden rooms Ezio had had built (like Assassin priestholes) had been found. As such, he took a small group with him (finally including Avery, who was still mad at him) to investigate. They came back with some well-preserved documents, a few of Leonardo Da Vinci’s sketches, and several copies of his upgraded weapon designs. 

Italy wasn’t safe for them. This region of Italy, anyway, after their excursion to Arezzo. So they made arrangements to move everything to the Americas - South America specifically - and moved out.

-/\\-

The night before they were supposed to leave Rome Desmond went looking for Lucy’s headstone in all of the small cemeteries in the historic city’s outskirts. He found it two hours later, collapsing onto his knees in front of it and resting his forehead against the cool granite.

“I know what you were, what you were planning to do,” he muttered. “And that hurts. I feel betrayed, and I’m right to feel that way. But you were my friend, and thanks to Clay I know what they did to you. My dad, Vidic... I just- Lucy, why did it have to end this way? I never wanted to be just another person to hurt you, but I believe you genuinely believed in me despite everything. And I-” Desmond broke off, taking in deep shuddering breaths as he glanced at his hands and saw a flashback of them covered in her blood. “I am so, _so _sorry. Just- I want, I want you to know, that I’m going to do better by my people. Our people. No one should ever go through what you did.”

He stood, moving slightly before pausing and extracting a small chisel he’d packed in anticipation. Slowly, he knelt to carve onto the back of the smooth stone surface. He drew a shuddering breath as he stood tall again and rested his hand on the top of the headstone before muttering under his breath and walking away. He didn’t look back.

“Goodbye, Lucy. I’m sorry.”

The headstone now had the words ‘_aspicimus sed non videmus; amissi sumus._’ carved faintly into the back underneath the Assassin logo, but it was fractured into several pieces. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To note, the exact location of the Italian Abstergo Facility is not known. I liked the location of Arezzo because it was more out of the way but close to the more historically-significant cities at the same time, almost in the middle and a decently-sized city, because if you had people kidnapped whilst looking for ancient artifacts you’d want that sort of location. If it gets explicitly referenced I will change it to suit canon.
> 
> Sono tornato all'inizio (Italian) - I’ve come back to the start
> 
> Aspicimus sed non videmus; amissi sumus. (Latin) - We observe but we do not see; we are lost (Special thanks to DarthTofu for the edit).
> 
> And in case the hacking scene felt familiar, I'd just watched "Into the Spider-verse" before writing this chapter.


	31. The Shot Heard 'Round the World

_Bill had spent the first months after the events at the Grand Temple in a state of abject depression. Despite his aloof behavior, losing Desmond had gutted him. He’d gone back to work as Mentor, staying as a reclusive authority figure that everyone only rarely saw as he quietly followed up on any and all potential leads pertaining to his son’s whereabouts. He had reached the point where he’d been desperate for any news; whether it was news of his survival or the location of his body, Bill wanted to get some closure._

_Shaun and Rebecca had infiltrated the Montreal Abstergo facility only to accidentally recruit and subsequently lose a Sage, discover what the Sample 17 Project was working on, and finalize things in the most finite way possible by sending Bill the video of Desmond’s autopsy. _

_After that he’d thrown himself into his work, pausing only briefly to meet Desmond’s mother in person to deliver the news as it was the least he could do, and recently he’d tracked Layla Hassan to Bayek’s tomb in Egypt to recruit her from Abstergo , biding his time in a hotel in the nearest city trying to figure out where she’d set up camp. _

_For the first time in a long time he’d run out of things to distract him. ...Until._

_“Bill, you should see the reports coming in from the Abstergo facilities in Spain and Italy,” one of his aides said quietly._

_“Really, why? What happened?” Bill murmured, rubbing at his temples as he scanned through the documents. His eyes widened slightly. “And this is accurate?”_

_“Yes. No one really knows what happened, but an unknown group of supposed Assassins infiltrated the Templar meeting in London and assassinated Alan Rikkin. They then recovered a previously-unknown Apple of Eden and left no trace of their whereabouts.” _

_“Who are they?” _

_“No idea. Still trying to figure that out, but...” the aide trailed off and Bill looked at him expectantly. He cleared his throat and continued. “They were organized, highly skilled. And there were remains found near the Madrid facility. They’d been burned on a pyre, looks like.” _

_“I see. You can go now.” The man left and Bill leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled together as he puzzled over the documents laid out before him with great confusion. _

_-/\\-_

_It seemed the only thing anyone was talking about at present was what had happened in Madrid and, by default, London. Rebecca and Shaun had been off in Mongolia when all that had occurred; Rebecca needed rest after almost dying trying to get the Shroud and the work in such a remote destination as they’d been assigned was perfect to recuperate whilst doing. While it was obvious Bill had wanted Shaun tasked to other matters he knew better than to split the pair up, and quite honestly after everything they’d been through they had earned a break. _

_There had been this... insane idea they’d both gotten into their heads. Neither spoke it aloud, but the way they both poured over the available footage and scanned any and all reports they could get their hands on was communication enough that they both knew what the other was looking for._

_They didn’t find it. That brief spark of hope... oh well. _

_So, they’d let it go. Got on with their duties, helped Bishop with her Initiates program, etc etc sis boom ba. One of their missions had them going back to Italy for a few days, so they decided to stay at Monteriggioni. The place still hadn’t been compromised, and despite their mutual reluctance to dredge up memories both good and bad it was their best bet. _

_When they’d got there they’d been stunned to see that most of the rubble had been cleared away from the floor to make room for mats, which practically lined every square inch of it. The power was already primed to be tapped into at a much higher and far more stable connection. The builder’s hut with the restroom facilities was open with an expertly-picked lock. _

_In short, someone - or rather a lot of someones - had stayed there quite recently and then left with barely a trace. It was like a pack of ghosts had camped out for a few days. _

_Discreet digging turned up a rather confusing set of concurrent events; the basement of a restaurant had been broken into on Tiber Island (coincidentally where they knew the old Assassin Bureau had been), the Italian branch of Abstergo had been infiltrated (and a very curious set of objects had been taken from there), a small army it seemed had camped out at Monteriggioni in the Assassin Vault, and finally, a large influx of people in various states of age and ailment had been accepted at a nearby nursing home. _

_Shaun and Rebecca had gone to the place as soon as they’d heard under the guise of a newlywed couple visiting one of Rebecca’s ‘great aunts’ to get some answers. And what answers they’d received. The ones capable of saying anything were very shrewd in their replies. The rest were incoherent. But regardless, it was obvious to people who had been around the Animus before that every single one of these new people had fallen into their conditions due to bad episodes of the Bleeding Effect and exposure to an Animus in general. _

_“So, what do you think?” Rebecca asked as she chewed on the end of her straw and sipped at a pink lemonade. Shaun frowned at her briefly before adjusting his glasses on his nose and pointing to one of the documents they’d procured about the Madrid incident. _

_“I honestly don’t know what to think,” he sighed. “None of this makes sense.” He glanced at his watch. “We have just enough time to... visit... before we have to leave for Berlin by train. What do you say?”_

_“Feel like we should,” Rebecca murmured sullenly. They paid the waitress at the café and headed out toward the edges of Rome, stopping in the tiny graveyard they’d buried Lucy in. _

_The place really hadn’t changed all that much since they’d been there for the quick, quiet burial. _

_They both said their respects and stood to leave. Shaun paused at the gate, glancing back at the headstone, and gasped, eyes widening as he scurried back over and simply stared at the blank back of the marker. He knelt and ran his fingers over the inscription._

_“Becs! You’re gonna want to see this!” He shouted. Rebecca hurried to join him and let out a soft exclamation of confusion as she rapidly entered the text into Google Translate on her phone and frowned, showing it to Shaun._

_“What’s it supposed to mean, you think?”_

_“I... dunno,” he admitted, flabbergasted. They exchanged a look and went back to devoting their attention to Lucy’s headstone. “I just don’t know...” _

_-/\\-_

_“They made a laughing stock of me, of our Order, and especially of my father,” Sofia growled. She paced what had once been her father’s London office (now hers) and waited for McGowan to collect his thoughts before he replied. _

_“It could have been far worse,” he ventured tentatively._

_“How? All of our data was destroyed, our data sources were either burned or fled and thus are missing, and the CEO, the face of Abstergo Industries, was assassinated. To top it all off, we now not only have the Assassin Order to deal with but a rather large group of desperate Assassin wannabes attacking our other institutions led by quite possibly the most talented leadership cocktail potential ever condensed into one body. How could it be worse?” _

_“You need to prove yourself to the rest of the Templar Order,” McGowan said patiently. “What better way to do that than to handle the situation? After all, who knows these people better than you?” _

_Sofia stopped pacing to slowly look up at him, a faintly self-satisfied smile creeping into the corners of her mouth before she took a deep, calming breath and exhaled._

_“Right then,” she said matter-of-factly as she sat at the desk and placed her hands neatly before her. “I want you to call Otso Berg and Sigma Team. We have work to do.” _

END PART I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up until this point, this story was directly canon-compliant with Odyssey. But like any good Assassin, I need to set myself free if this is going to go anywhere. Things will begin changing. When the next game comes out I'll try to factor its events in to my plotline, but for the most part I am now in uncharted waters. That's good, refreshing. I needed the breathing room. I had originally intended to make the entire thing as canon-compliant as possible, but it resulted in about a 4-5 month hiatus because I got bad writers' block and because I hadn't yet played Odyssey. Well, I've finished Odyssey and have been faithful to canon compliance for all of that. As I'm aware that the end of the 2016 movie was in - go figure - 2016 and that Odyssey takes place in 2019 for the modern plot, there will be some catching up. This will move in short spurts and jumps over the more mundane things with brief summaries about what happened until I get caught up with year tags to help, but once I hit 2019 my story is my own. My plot is my own. 
> 
> That's what 'END PART I' means. The end of the intro, of sorts, and the beginning of the real story in PART II.


	32. Reformation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many of you requested I post the link to the music playlist I use to stay in the mood for this fanfic. Well, here it is:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLtySlXIiOy6HfOp_Pzwwc7fyMFZ4K7Syb
> 
> Please, please, PLEASE read the playlist description before listening, as it tells you which song is ascribed to which character.

_2016, Two Months After Madrid_

“Desmond?” He turned from the cliff face, the wind in his hair as he scrubbed at his barely-there beard with a grimace. He really needed a shave. 

“Yeah?” Moussa came to stand beside him and looked out over the clear waters of the Caribbean. 

“It’s beautiful here,” the man began. Desmond nodded.

“But...?”

“But it’s not exactly viable for a base of operations. While our people are more than capable surviving in the outdoors with little more than campfires and ancient ruins for shelter, doing anything effective and more assertive than simply subsisting is impossible.” 

“I know, Moussa,” Desmond sighed, shoving his hands into the pockets of his robes. He held the fabric up for emphasis. “But first we need to be better-equipped. We have the technology, we have the power in those generators we looted. But we need time to get our gear made. Now, this place hasn’t hosted our order since the Templars invaded in the early 1700s and thus the Templars have no reason to find us here.”

“But we should be making a mark,” Moussa argued. “Let them know we’re out there!”

“To what purpose? If we reveal ourselves now, all we’ll get out of it is a massacre. We don’t even have a real system of government, Moussa. If I die can you imagine the chaos the group would end up in?” When the man didn’t answer Desmond knew he was getting through to him. “We need a council. We need a proper Initiate-Novice-Assassin-Master Assassin training system. We need _members with titles_, for God’s sake. None of you are actually Assassins in the eyes of the Order.”

“And you are?” Moussa asked with a raised eyebrow. Desmond raised one right back.

“Yes. I earned a full-fledged Assassin rank shortly after recovering the Kenway key to the Grand Temple from the current Mentor of the Order. This obvious doesn’t qualify me for a management position though.”

“No, but it _does _make you the only qualified person to induct us properly into our Order,” Moussa reasoned. “Like it or not you’re stuck in a leadership position for the time being.”

“I’m getting that feeling,” he sighed. 

-/\\-

They had made their camp near the modern day city of Tulum, in Mexico. The ancient ruins that everyone came to see as a tourist spot were not the same ones the Assassins were occupying; their predecessors were, if nothing else, stealthy and they remained in an undiscovered part of the old ruins deeper in the jungle. It was a steep hike to get to the ocean but there were plenty of opportunities to remain hidden and still see approaching people. It was perfect for their purposes, if inconvenient when it came to basic amenities like power and plumbing. Clean water was present and so were an abundance of edible plants (as well as small animals). The only problem was the predatory wildlife that skulked about at night, but that was why they had shelters built above the jungle floor. 

They’d arrived during the summer months and the heat was nigh-intolerable for many of their members. Desmond, who had plenty of ancestors who had either experienced Caribbean, Turkish, or Syrian Summers, was okay with this if a little uncomfortable but there were many in their group that existed solely in the cool shade of the ruins for the height of the day. It was lucky they were mostly nocturnal to begin with to minimize the risk of detection. 

It was during their first month at Tulum that Desmond sat down with all of the senior members of their company, with those whose ancestors had served in managerial capacity, and with those who had proven they were capable of such positions. The pickings were small and the heat made everyone irritable, but they muddled through as they worked to form the exact type of political structure they wanted to use. 

Almost immediately they voted to have a Mentor who had the final say on everything, and much to Desmond’s chagrin they picked him for that. The next business of order was to determine what the secondary power would be, and this was what took the longest to come to a decision on. 

The Council, traditionally a group of ten selected officers dedicated to overseeing a specific part of everyday life that reported to the Mentor, had changed in many varying ways over the centuries. What had been utilized in Altaïr’s time and in Ezio’s time was vastly different in execution, and the usage of such a council in France during the 1789 revolution (so members of the community who had ancestors present there said) had been too powerful, unlike the American Colonial systems which could be considered too lax. 19th Century forms were considered, in general, to be too mechanical in structure and based on deliberation rather than fast action. It took forever for anything to get done, which just wouldn’t work for their needs. 

It was Moussa who suggested the Supreme Court method (with a twist, of course). Everyone on the Council would have equal say, and the Mentor would take the pseudo-position akin to Chief Justice. The odds were uneven, thirteen people in total, so that there would be no stalemate. The Mentor would vote last on most things, having the deciding vote. This meant that, to get things done, the entire Council had equal ability to send people out on missions but that no one had to wait for the entire group to assemble and make a decision. It also meant that the checks and balances were done through the fact that if someone messed up the rest of the Council had full qualifications to oust them from their position and hand it to someone else (after much argument, Desmond finally succeeded in making sure this also applied to the person in the role of Mentor so that another Abbas or Achilles issue never arose). 

Each member of the Council would be in charge of one aspect of the operations of their Order (aside from Mentor, who was basically overseeing everything to make sure there was no overlap or two aspects working against each other on accident). The twelve aspects were as follows, neither one nor the other more important but equal in necessity:

  1. Training (everyone needed a certain level of field and desk experience)

  2. Defenses (fortifying the base, security arrangements, offensive capabilities)

  3. Medical (both mental and physical, as people would get hurt and traumatized)

  4. Equipment and Acquisitions (mainly vehicles and whatever they found in the field)

  5. Cultural Well-being (making sure the community were satisfied and looked after)

  6. Technology (gear for missions, hacking, communique, whatever Charity invented next)

  7. Research (staying up to date on world affairs, Abstergo, Erudito, Templars, etc)

  8. Physical Needs (easy access to food, decent shelter, clean water, sanitation, etc)

  9. Communications (with field operatives, Erudito, or any other helpful individuals)

  10. Precursor (tracking Precursor artifacts and keeping them out of Abstergo’s hands)

  11. Finances (their money, albeit stolen for a good cause, needed monitoring)

  12. The Animus 

This last aspect sparked debate, but eventually everyone conceded that there were people who needed to sync their memories for psychological stability and that, if Abstergo and the mainstream Assassins were using it to find Precursor artifacts, they would quickly fall behind without that extra edge. Besides, no one would be required to go in unless they volunteered. The problem would be in finding someone knowledgeable enough to run it who wasn’t going to stab them in the back. 

The next problem lay in finding suitable individuals to run these aspects, which also involved those individuals assembling their own teams of workers. 

All of it made Desmond admire the committal the Congressional Convention had made - in similar heating arrangements no less - and wonder how all of them remained sane. 

_2016, Three Months After Madrid_

With the organizational system underway, all that remained was finding people willing to staff it. Desmond eschewed all of that in favor of taking a field mission, desperate to stretch his legs. And, while his ancestors had been in constant encouragement with the whole process, he realized that the part of his mind where they resided hadn’t felt relaxed during any of it until he’d gone on a surveillance op. 

It was comforting, knowing that none of them were particularly happy with being Mentor (or in Haytham’s case Grandmaster) and that they had seen it, much like him, more as a calling than an ambition. Even Altaïr, who was arguably the one who had been groomed for the position the most, had always felt more himself when out scaling rooftops and evading guards than stuck behind his desk with mounds of paperwork (that wasn’t part of his self-initiated curious investigations into just about anything that piqued his interest, which was just about everything). 

The wind whistled through his short, tufty bangs and he swiped them to the side as he crouched on the edge of an office building. Hazy shapes in uninteresting grey wandered the streets in the inky field of his eagle vision, but he didn’t see his target. 

The woman in question was a big-time CEO for an Argentinian front tech business for Abstergo and Erudito had quietly sent word to Mavis that she had blueprints for a new version of the Animus in her briefcase (which, true to spy movie form, was handcuffed to her wrist). 

_Stereotypical villain of the week, eh? _Ezio commented amusedly. _Figures. _

_Not _all _Templars are like that, _Haytham huffed. 

_No, not _all_, _Edward snickered. _But most._

“You guys possessing my knowledge of modern slang and meme culture is disturbing,” Desmond muttered aloud. 

_Desmond, what exactly is a Buffalo Wild Wings? _Altaïr asked. 

“Wait, they have those here? Sweet.” 

_But, what _is _it? _

A spot of gold illumined his vision and he straightened. 

“Never mind that, we’ve got papers to pilfer,” he muttered, drawing the hood on his 16th Century Spanish Assassin robes over his head so that the peak shaded his eyes. “Need to move.”

_I _will _find out what they are eventually_, Altaïr grumbled stubbornly. _Don’t think this conversation is over_. 

Desmond winced as he felt someone rooting around in his memories but let things be, too interested in what was going on in the street to be bothered with his mental construct of Altaïr’s personality as it embarked on its quest in understanding restaurant chains. He crept forward slowly along the roof, keeping the target in sight, before dropping lightly into a nearby alley and slipping seamlessly into the flow of foot traffic. The woman was a few feet in front of him, none the wiser, and he dropped back farther to tail her when he got a better look at the locks on the briefcase. 

He followed her a good distance, patiently waiting for an opportune moment to either get her isolated or for her to hand the briefcase over to a ‘secure lock box’ (the very name of which elicited scoffs from all of his ancestors and himself) so that he could pinch it. When the crowd thinned out and he became more conspicuous Desmond ducked into a nearby shop and pretended to be eyeing the wares, tracking her golden form through the wall and smirking when he saw shimmering gold footprints leaving a trail for him to follow. 

“Ey, si no vas a comprar nada, entonces vete!” The shopkeeper scolded, looking annoyed. Desmond flashed him a predatory smile in return. 

“Usted es pionero en el mundo de los negocios, señor,” he said sweetly in response. The man blinked, a thunderous expression crossing his face, as Desmond waved and left the building. 

_Cheeky, _Haytham reprimanded, but the effect was lost by the badly-masked pride running underneath. Desmond snickered and patiently tracked the briefcase-laden woman through the wall with his eagle vision, leaning under the overhang of the shop’s doorway and making the already-irritable man more irritable in doing so. When she had gotten a fair distance away he eased off the wall and began following at a methodical, intent pace. He tracked his quarry to a nondescript-looking office complex and hummed softly in anticipation, muscles burning pleasantly as he scaled the wall of a nearby grocer’s store and settled in behind the decorative moulding of the edge of the roof. 

A few hours later the woman left sans briefcase and Desmond began surveying the area. He took his time with it, making note of every camera and locked door, every armed guard (of which there were a surprising many for a supposed ‘accounting firm’), all the potential entrances and exits. 

_This job is almost too easy_, Ezio murmured uneasily. Altaïr said nothing, but Desmond could sense his agreement. 

_Sometimes you just get lucky, _Edward countered. _Every once in a while you catch a break._

_Did that ever happen for you? _Haytham asked drily. 

_...No_. 

_Then how would you know? _

_Shut up shut up shut up... _Desmond muttered internally, hissing softly in annoyance. 

_Rude,_ Edward sighed over-dramatically. Desmond ignored him as he avoided the attentions of a roof guard. 

It was well past two in the morning when he ventured toward the target, slipping easily in though an unlocked third story window after timing the foot patrol and dancing around the camera system. His Eagle Vision showed the briefcase in shimmering gold a floor above and two offices down, so he picked his way silently over to the stairs and moved toward his goal. 

The place reeked of Abstergo. It looked like an outpost of some sort though Desmond was at a loss as to what they were doing in Tulum, and it made him uneasy that his people were practically in their backyard. They needed to move, and soon. Especially if he... 

_If I steal this, we need to leave immediately,_ he mused. _But we’re not prepared to do that. _

_Simply copy the papers using the photocopier and then you can recreate the technology at a later time, _Ezio suggested.

_How do you know about the photo- right, never mind. You’re not actually real, I’m just losing my mind in a civilized fashion._

_Exactly, Desmond. _

_That’s not very comforting. _Ezio did a mental shrug. 

_Not my problem. _

“Nice,” Desmond whispered sarcastically aloud. He located the briefcase and followed the copying suggestion, frowning at the small intricate pieces of technology. Grumbling to himself, he took out his burner phone and took several pictures. The lighting was terrible and the camera was crap, but it was better than nothing. Charity might still be able to get something out of it. That done, he grabbed the still-warm duplicates and slipped out the same way he came in (after closing the window behind him to avert suspicion, of course). 

It wasn’t paranoia if it kept you alive.

_Keep telling yourself that, _Connor muttered.

_Oh, like running around the Colonies loudly shouting ‘Where is Charles Lee!?’ was a good idea in any century, _Altaïr retorted with a mental huff. His emotional signature turned decidedly smug, mixed with disgusted. _Desmond, I figured out what Buffalo Wild Wings was. The 21st Century’s concept of food is terrible._

“How is this my life now?” Desmond muttered, frowning as he slunk off toward the ruins with his precious information folded neatly in an inner pocket snug against his heart. 

_2016, Four Months After Madrid_

Two weeks after Desmond’s little stunt in Tulum (a time where all anyone did was debate in committee), the ragtag Assassin sect voted collectively on a number of administration elections and general organization housekeeping refinements. To begin with, Council Members would be elected for an indeterminable amount of time unless a vote of no confidence was undertaken or a contender arose (at which point both candidates would present their qualifications). Such a position could not he ceded by a chosen successor, and they were elected by the Order as a whole. Once their term was over, they would have no chance for re-election to completely discourage any political lobbying and campaigning. The Mentor would also be elected by the Order, but such a position was not done by having a candidate present themselves. They were chosen by popular vote only, no campaigning. The Mentor, once elected, could not choose a successor and would serve the rest of their life in office. The Council would look as follows:

  * Mentor —> Desmond (against his will)

  * Training —> Lin (strong and commanding, like Shao)

  * Defenses —> Luke (gentle giant, mean swing)

  * Medical —> Jack (Erudito but heart of gold; most importantly, LICENSED)

  * Equipment and Acquisitions —> Devon (carjacker extraordinaire and kleptomaniac)

  * Cultural Well-being —> Moussa (well, who else was it going to be?)

  * Technology —> Charity (Erudito but try and keep her away from it)

  * Research —> Charlie (gets geeky over all of it)

  * Physical Needs —> Sandra (her ancestor was a centurion and commanded many)

  * Communications —> Felix (old, soft-spoken, but wanting to help; born peacemaker)

  * Precursor —> Mavis (the only person Desmond really trusted for it)

  * Finances —> Kevin (a random guy who just happened to be the only accountant there)

  * The Animus —> As yet undetermined (they really needed a miracle on that one)

It wasn’t the best system, but it was the best they could do. Lin’s first order of business was to establish a proper ranking system for all members of the Order. They were as follows:

  * Observer —> An outsider who is not planning to train

  * Initiate —> New, has had little to no training

  * Novice —> Not cleared for field training; has had learning experience 

  * Apprentice —> Cleared for field training under supervision of assigned Teacher

  * Assassin Rank I —> Takes missions without supervisor if observed by Master Rank

  * Assassin Rank II —> Missions can be done on initiative without prior clearance

  * Assassin Rank III —> Now cleared (and expected) to take an Apprentice to train

  * Master Assassin —> Oversees Rank I’s and takes most serious missions

  * Dai —> A Master Assassin who has retired from field service; expected to aid research

  * Veteran —> A non-Master Assassin who has retired from field service

  * Council Member —> extremely prestigious, must be elected; not permanent

  * Mentor —> Well, speaks for itself yeah? Life term once elected

Ranks Initiate through Assassin III could be given out by Council Members and of course anyone could decide themselves when they wanted to retire, but the rank of Master Assassin was to be decided only by the Mentor themself after being approved for qualification by the entirety of the Council. It was not a position to be taken lightly, for obvious reasons, and thus could never be given without first proving oneself worthy of the Council’s favor before being approved by the Mentor themselves. As for the Observers, it was possible to exist among the Assassins without being a member of the Order (see Leonardo Da Vinci, the vast Majority of Edward Kenway’s Caribbean existence, and Erudito). Thus, they had a rank that granted them trust and safety within the Order but not access to any sensitive information (unless, in the unique current situation with Erudito, it was necessary and approved by the Mentor or the Council depending on the level of information security). 

Naturally, this system was already loads better than their Council setup was. That went without saying; determining one’s rank was directly tied to dedication and experience as well as skill and a demonstration of prolonged commitment. The only thing left to do was to determine who, in their current menagerie, belonged in what rank. This would be done Lin decided through a simple test of skill, book knowledge, and understanding of the Brotherhood’s Code. Then, the ranks would be assigned. For the first mass assumption of titles the entire Council would be voting to figure it all out. Then, all that was left was to actually induct everyone into the Order in the proper ritual and procedure. Luckily, Desmond knew exactly what he needed to do for that.

_2016, Five Months After Madrid_

When it came down to it establishing a new form of government wasn’t as trying as Desmond had initially thought it would be. Sure it was stressful and he’d wanted to punch something more than once, but the same could be said of students on their midterms so whatever. His ancestors had been massive help in staying afloat through everything and he’d been able to let out a huge sigh of relief when it was all over. 

He’d performed the induction ceremony without issue despite their being so many people, and they had a fairly even spread of ranked people. Three Dais, twelve Veterans. Fifteen Master Assassins (two of which sat on the Council), a well-tiered spread of Assassins Ranked I-III according each to their own, a couple of Observers courtesy of Erudito and four would-be Initiates who had been persuaded to join the hacking ranks instead of the Assassins. As such there were no actual Initiates at this time (fortunate, seeing as a decent education structure had not yet been put in place despite Charlie looking forward to figuring it out with the help of one of the Dais who was fortuitously a retired schoolteacher to boot). The number of Novices was also low but the Apprentices somewhat higher; Cal and Avery applied to the latter of the two categories rather than the former. This decision to include the pair had been met with opposition. Cal, in the end, understood that while he was well-versed in the physical side he knew very little about Assassin history and culture. He conceded the point after a heated argument and then took it in his stride.

Avery was a different matter. She wanted to be an Assassin, felt qualified for it, and was grossly outraged over the fact that her being a minor excluded her from eligibility. To appease her Desmond took her on as his Apprentice with the promise that when she reached the age of 18 she would automatically ascend to the Third Rank (something which was met with great approval by the rest of the Council because she was capable, dedicated, knowledgeable, and skilled but unfortunately just too young). 

In all, not too shabby for five months’ worth of work. 

They’d also packed up shop and moved farther down into some secluded coastal regions of Chile. Charity still got great signal due to Erudito having one or two of their own satellites (and what they didn’t have they could hack), so despite being cut off from the outside world they were strangely up to date on all developing world affairs. Devon kept leaving with a few experienced thieves in tow every other weekend only to return with looted goods and the promise that he only took from people Charity had classified as receiving dirty money from Abstergo under the table, but that was how they somehow ended up with a 3D printer and a semi truck full of material to use in it. 

Desmond made him take the tanning bed he’d found back to a chorus of protests from pretty much everyone in the Order. 

At any rate, they had a former fashion design major who’d switched to interior design for some reason. Apply that with an engineer who was vaguely knowledgeable about the printer and the right type of fabric (which had been apprehended in huge rolled sheets from the Abstergo facility on their way out of Italy), and Desmond ended up walking around in a white hoodie with red accents made of prototype material stronger than Kevlar but a fraction of the weight and rigidity. 

It was like an outfitting frenzy. Everyone was asking for titanium weapons (okay, Desmond may have been guilty of asking for a special sword), guns, crossbows, holsters, etc. Absolute chaos, and the team working it had to put out a reserve list for people to sign up on. Desmond finally found one good thing about being Mentor in that he got first priority, but it was extremely confusing when they saved his special hoodie accommodations as a base and other people then added or accented it however they wished with customizable colors and such. Ah well. He could live with being a trendsetter every once in a while. 

Of course, the _best _part was that he got a pretty sick sword out of it. 

Oh, and a motorcycle. But that was more Devon being preemptive than anything else. It really was handy having the guy grabbing your new gear through ‘dubious appropriation’ be a skilled carjacker and all-round Exhibit A kleptomaniac. But that was how his ancestors mentally drooled over the scarlet red (with dark accents) Ducati Panigale that he so, _so _totally called dibs on and nearly pummeled Charlie over. Devon made sure to put a chrome paint decal of his tattoo on the left side and the Precursor circuit board... whatever it was on the right side.

Desmond sighed as the engine practically purred to life, the seat vibrating underneath him. Oh, yeah. Now _this _was living the dream.

...Ironically Haytham, ‘Mr. Prim and Proper Protocal Extraordinaire’, liked the motorbike the most and Edward, ‘Don’t call me sir it’s _Pirate Captain_’, liked it the least. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some time ago I took a college class that had me using mapping software called ArcGIS. I was then supposed to make a sort of tour of a major city's landmarks or some such other boring thing, but instead I elected to create an interactive story map of all of the locations in the Assassin's Creed franchise. it's here:
> 
> https://www.arcgis.com/apps/MapJournal/index.html?appid=291e494a537b48b2b22d839905aa5909
> 
> If you want a summary of the game's locations, and to know exactly where you are in relation to the world, I have updated it to the point of the Fate of Atlantis DLC in Odyssey.
> 
> TRANSLATIONS. Note, I do not speak Spanish and used Google, so if you are a native speaker feel free to correct me for accuracy. 
> 
> si no vas a comprar nada, entonces vete (Spanish) - if you aren’t going to buy anything, then get out.
> 
> usted es pionero en el mundo de los negocios, señor (Spanish) - you are a pioneer in the business world, sir.
> 
> GENERAL  
At the point I was writing this chapter I was taking two Political Science classes in college. Gotta be honest, I haven’t found any of it useful except when creating this new system of Assassin government. Oy vey, education at its finest. Also, writing government is HARD. It has more broken mechanics than Assassin’s Creed Unity! 


	33. Order and Anarchy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven’t played Watch_Dogs and want to, be aware there are mild spoilers. Not bad, and certainly won’t ruin the climactic ending for the game, but tiny little ‘what happened after the game ended’ type stuff. Ubisoft kept teasing that the two video game worlds were one and the same and I couldn’t resist, seeing as we haven’t heard anything of Aiden since the first game and a minor cameo in Watch_Dogs 2. 
> 
> I would also like to point out that Aiden Pearce will not be a main character in this story. As you well know there is Desmond, Charlie, and Avery as sort of the main three. Then there are background main characters like Luke, Jack, Moussa, Mavis, Charity, and Cal. Aiden will belong to the latter category rather than the former. You do not need to have played Watch_Dogs to continue reading this story, nor to understand his character when he gets added. 

_ January of 2017 _

Desmond breathed in the chill air, puffs of steamy vapors trailing from his mouth as he shook the sleet from his shoulders and adjusted his position on the roof. Avery shifted beside him more out of cold than impatience, her entire body tensed against the weather. St. Louis, Missouri, wasn’t really known for its bitter winters but this particular day was brutal. The temperature was easily in the teens with a wicked wind chill factor in the negatives, and glancing at his shivering companion in her pastel pink hoodie with the navy accents Desmond seriously considered moving their stakeout to a nearby Starbucks. 

They’d put on warm, insulated jackets over their standard kit but the biting wind was cutting through it all the same. Evening was coming ever closer and it was only going to get colder, which led to stiff fingers, which led to not getting good purchase when climbing and thus needless danger in being up high when they could just as easily be somewhere warmer on the ground with some moderately decent coffee to boot (a hot chocolate for Avery; Charlie had threatened to skin anyone who gave the already-hyperactive teenager concentrated caffeine). 

Honestly, he was kind of loving the snow. It reminded him of England and New England, of bitter Bristol mornings, of chasing Assassins who had strayed from the Code with Shay in the Arctic Circle, of evading wolves in the River Valley. It also reminded him more unpleasantly of winters in the snowy mountains around Masyaf and navigating the dangerous rocky footpaths. Of getting shot at by Templars during a storm and almost falling into the frigid waters below a few centuries later. They’d been in South America for so long he’d almost forgotten his early mornings spent in his crap apartment in New York or having to hike through the drifts at the Farm growing up. Missouri wasn’t as far away from South Dakota as other places and while it was warmer he felt like he was closer to his idea of childhood home. 

“I hate North America,” Avery said suddenly through chattering teeth. “At least, I hate any place that gets snow in North America...”

“You’re from Arizona aren’t you?” Desmond asked with a small smile. She nodded and huddled closer to his side for warmth. 

“You?”

“South Dakota.”

“...Icicle Jerk.” He snorted and shook his head, flicking into EV to check their surroundings once again before being satisfied that no one was approaching. Desmond stood and offered her a hand up. “What...?”

“Let’s go find a coffee house to thaw out in.”

“My hero,” Avery whimpered as she gratefully trailed after him. They hopped down into an alley and rejoined the mainstream foot traffic, on sharp lookout for a café that suited their stakeout needs, and finally became satisfied when a wild Starbucks appeared. They paid in cash for their warm beverages and then sat at the window table that afforded the best vantage point, settling in to wait. 

After about forty-five minutes Desmond became aware that they were not the only ones staking out the Abstergo health clinic. His ancestors were chattering quietly in the back of his head, discussing the man with the slightly tattered grey coat and the statement piece of a hat as he played on his phone under a building overhang. To the casual observer he looked like someone waiting to meet up with a friend outside a bar, but Desmond knew better. The brim of his hat obscured his features and his posture was relaxed, but a quick glance across the table showed that Avery had noticed him too.

«Think he’ll be a problem?» She asked in Latin. He shrugged, sipping his coffee.

«We’ll see. Doesn’t look like Erudito and definitely isn’t a mainstream Assassin. More likely a freelancer or hacktivist or something. Keep an eye on him and if we run into him later tonight when we go digging through Abstergo’s files we’ll figure out if he needs to disappear or not. Deal?»

«Sounds like a plan,» she conceded before adding bitterly, «You’re my field mentor, after all. I kinda have to do what you say regardless.»

«Avery, get over yourself. I treat you like a fully-fledged Assassin,» Desmond snapped irritably. «I just can’t in good conscience send you out into the field when you’re still too young to skip school without committing a federal offense.»

“Sorry,” Avery muttered in English, slumping in her seat. “It’s just hard. I... I miss my family and I don’t- I don’t want to mess this up.”

“Do you want to go and see them?” Desmond asked. She turned to look at him with wide, hopeful eyes and it made it easier to ignore the excessive protests in the back of his head telling him it was a bad idea. Of course it was a bad idea. But sometimes it was worth the risk if a kid could let her family know she was alive and with good people who cared about her even if she could never come home. 

“Could I?” She breathed.

“Yeah. We can make a detour on the way back to base, okay? It’s not like we don’t have the money or anything. Plane fare is easy.” He was left scrambling to protect their drinks as she launched herself across the table to hug him. “Hey, hey! Easy!”

“Thankyouthankyouthankyou!” 

Long shadows stretched across the sidewalk between the old rose-colored street lamps and the two Assassins walked along the edge of the water, taking in the sights. Desmond had his hood pulled up, his face mask firmly in place over his nose so that his eyes barely shone through, under the guise of trying to keep warm. Avery was in much the same state with a large navy scarf wrapped around her neck for good measure, and they were all too aware of the stillness around them. Luckily the man from earlier hadn’t tailed them, but Desmond rather disliked all of the cameras in the city. They were a wealth of information to people like that hacktivist - if that was what he was - and society was better off without them in his humble opinion. 

Avery glanced around before crouching to pick the lock on the back door of the Abstergo health clinic, Desmond blocking her from the street by leaning against the building and pretending to be looking at something in his hands. Once inside they rifled quietly around the place and avoided the camera fields, looking to find new information on any people Abstergo might be thinking of kidnapping so that they could save it to their files and erase it from the Templars’. A private secondary objective of Desmond’s was to find information on Elijah but he recognized that, while it was a priority for him, it wasn’t for his Order. So he was resigned to idly chasing that on his own dime rather than using Assassin resources. 

...Nevertheless...

“I can’t find _anything_,” Avery muttered at such a light whisper that Desmond, with his enhanced senses, barely heard her. He opened his mouth to reply when the soft tread of heavy boots one floor above them made him freeze. Silently, he put a finger to his lips and pointed at the ceiling. Avery’s eyes were large as she nodded tensely and followed him toward the stairs. He signaled for her to wait out of sight of the landing in case their unexpected guest did a runner, then noiselessly ascended at a low crouch. 

Peering over the lip of the floor his eyes narrowed at the brown work boots with the caked dirt and obvious steel-tipped toes. They were moving confidently through the space but Desmond could tell they didn’t belong by the cat-like prowl they were moving about in, far too quiet for a late-night employee. On the bright side, the intruder - experience told him it was most probably a male by the size of the shoe and heaviness of the tread - didn’t know that he had company yet. Flicking into EV gave Desmond pause. He had been poised to let his hidden blade slide out, ready to stab the mark in as quick and painless a way as possible, when he noted that the man didn’t present with the red glow of danger and hostility. He wasn’t a golden target of interest either, simply an impassive grey with the faintest shimmer of blue. _Potential ally. _With that in mind he stood, brushing himself off, and made a soft noise to alert the other man that he was there. 

The man from the street whirled around and glared at Desmond with sharp green eyes that peered out from underneath a stylized grey baseball cap and above a neck warmer he’d pulled up to obscure the lower half of his face. Shaggy brunet hair with faint streaks of silver in the temples stuck out from underneath the hat, and Desmond approached the man slowly. 

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he said softly. “I’m here for information, and I think you are too.” 

“Doesn’t mean we have to work together,” the stranger replied warily. Dear God, was his voice gravelly. Desmond had the sudden image of tiny rocks flying up from the tires of a semi truck and smacking the guy in the face. 

“No, it doesn’t. Doesn’t mean we can’t be civil with one another either.”

“True.” A slight tilt of the head as a hand slowly eased away from the deep pocket of his long, modern trench coat. EV showed the _very vibrant _outline of a silencer pistol there, along with a semi-automatic strapped to the man’s back and pistols in hidden holsters in the coat. Jeez. Walking arsenal.

_You’re one to talk, _Ezio snorted sarcastically. 

_The difference is that I have stabby things, not reinacting a scene from the freaking _Matrix, Desmond muttered internally back. 

“Who do you work for?” The man asked. Desmond blinked.

“I’m part of an Order that opposes Abstergo and their benefactors,” he said carefully. When Grey Hat didn’t look impressed he sighed. “We’re working closely with Erudito.”

“Erudito?” Okay, _now _he sounded impressed. Good, this would be easier then. “Had some dealings with them. Seem like a pretty decent bunch all things considered.”

“He looks like the guy from the news I heard about,” Avery said softly as she came up the stairs. The man started, staring at her incredulously.

“Man, you brought a _kid _with you!?”

“Hey, I’m not a-“

“She’s not allowed on her own yet and can snap a grown man’s neck with her wrist,” Desmond retorted unconcernedly. “It was either that or she gets into trouble trying to prove something.”

“...Fair enough. Just, my nephew is about the same age...”

“They call you the Fox, right?” Avery asked. Her brows were furrowed, indicative of a scowl, as she crossed her arms over her chest. Grey Hat smirked. 

“Or the Vigilante. Depends on which part of the country I’m in.” 

“Pretentious,” Desmond snickered before he thought better of it. To his surprise the other man suddenly smiled.

“Suppose so.” He sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets - though nowhere near his weapons much to Desmond’s relief - and glanced around the room. “How’d you get in here without tripping any of the security cameras? I’ve been monitoring everything, would’ve known.”

“We avoided the field of view,” Avery said smoothly. Desmond flashed her a grin as she flashed their odd ‘business partner’ a raised eyebrow. “How’d _you _get past them?” In response Vigilante pulled out a highly advanced phone. 

“Hacked my way in. Quite the team, aren’t we?”

“Oh, what happened to being a Lone Fox?” 

“I... don’t think that’s the expression.”

“It’s a _joke_, gloom and doom. You’re supposed to _laugh_.”

“Avery, we were here for a _reason_,” Desmond sighed in mock exasperation as Vigilante (most likely, his mask kind of did its job) stifled a smirk. “We’re looking to copy and then destroy the patient files. Why were you here?”

“I need access to the Abstergo network, but couldn’t get a good fix on the server farm. This is the third Clinic I’ve been to. Once I get the router signal I can triangulate the main region complex.”

“...Can we come with you on that?” 

Anyway, that was how Desmond ended up dragging some guy named Aiden Pearce into an alley on the Arkansas border trying not to let him bleed out. 

-/\\-

Aiden slowly came to with a splitting headache and a searing pain in his right shoulder. Grunting, he hefted himself onto his remaining good elbow and surveyed his surroundings warily before blinking in surprise.

“I’m... in my room,” he stated dumbly. “Huh.”

“Desmond got you back here and sewed you up,” Nicole explained as she walked in carrying a glass of water and a bottle of Ibuprofen. Aiden just looked at his sister in confusion.

“Who?”

“The guy in the hoodie? Teenage girl follows him around like he’s the answer to all her questions? Ring a bell?”

“...His name is Desmond?” 

“Aiden, what were you doing breaking into an Abstergo server farm?” She asked, concerned as she sat on the edge of the bed. Her elder brother gave her a tired look before forcing himself to sit upright and take the offered medication. She waited patiently for him to swallow them down.

“You took Jackson to one of their clinics a couple of weeks ago, remember?” Nicole nodded. “I keep tabs on any sites or servers that our names could pop up on. Want to make sure we’re safe after what happened in Chicago. Anyway, they’d made a file for him.”

“Aiden, I think I can expect my son to get a medical file when I take him in to get treated for chicken pox,” she said with an exasperated huff. He frowned at her. 

“Not that kind of file. This was... different. I can’t explain how, but they were assessing him for something called ‘Isu Markers.’ I figured, better to be safe than sorry in case they liked what they saw. Abstergo’s got some weird, shadowy benefactors Sis. And I couldn’t track them.” With that pronouncement her eyes went wide, finally understanding the levity of the situation.

“Oh. But, why would they go looking for something like... whatever it was they were looking for?“

“Don’t know.” Aiden inspected his shoulder and whistled. “This is really professional.”

“Should be, I’ve got more than enough experience stitching people up including myself,” the hooded guy from earlier said as he paused in the entry to Aiden’s bedroom and leaned against the doorframe. “Avery’s catching a quick nap on the couch downstairs, thought you wouldn’t mind after the night we’ve had.”

“Thanks again for saving his butt,” Nicole sighed. She glanced between the two men, rolled her eyes, and went to leave. “I’ll just-“

“No, stay,” the stranger - or, apparently his name was Desmond - said. He ran his hand through his tufty brown hair and grimaced. “If they were looking at your kid’s DNA then this definitely includes you too.” He raised an eyebrow. “Mind if I come in?”

“The window seat’s sort of a nook,” Nicole said quietly. Desmond nodded and moved toward the aforementioned spot and sat. “Why do they want Jackson?”

“That’s... complicated. But you both deserve the full story, so just... just wait to ask any questions you might have until after I’ve said my piece, okay?” When they both nodded he took a breath and began. “So, to start with, what do you know about the Knights Templar?”

“Uh... King Richard the Lionheart, the Crusades?” Aiden offered with a shrug (which he immediately regretted). “There’s supposed to be this huge conspiracy theory where they weren’t all killed off and instead are pulling all the strings to manipulate the planet. Kinda like the Illuminati. Why?”

“It’s a conspiracy all right, but it’s definitely not a theory,” Desmond muttered darkly. His tiny audience’s eyes widened at the implications of that so he forged ahead. “In the year 1314, the Templar Grandmaster was a man named Jacques de Molay. That was the year they were purged from the nation and were thought to have been killed - Molay along with them. But that’s not true. The survivors went underground and began to rebuild. Many of them fled to Spain and Italy or scattered even farther East, and for a time the world had peace. But here’s the problem. Peace breeds carelessness, and carelessness allows things to fester and grow. 

“Avery and I are part of an Order opposite the Templars. It was ‘officially’ founded during the Crusades just like them and everyone thought it ended there too. But it didn’t. Like the Templars, we survive on anonymity and living in the shadows. We call ourselves the Assassins-“

“So you kill people,” Nicole interrupted flatly. Desmond pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. 

“How do I explain this? Um, okay. So, the word ‘assassin,’ for starters. Assassin. From the Arabic ‘hashashin,’ which means ‘users of hashish.’”

“What’s-“

“Cannabis, basically.” Desmond wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, doesn’t make much sense. But other people speculate it was derived from a far older Arabic word ‘assasseen,’ which means ‘guardian.’ Two options for where it came from. Which one makes more sense?” 

“Yeah, the second one doesn’t really have a segue from guarding something to killing people.”

“Depends what they guard Nicole,” Aiden countered. Desmond flashed him a grateful look. “So?”

“So... so. So, when people think of Kennedy, Princess Diana, things like that they think of the ‘hashashin’ interpretation. But the Templars, they stand for Order at the price of free will. Assassins stand for Free Will at the price of Order.”

“And that means...?” Aiden pressed.

“Assassins are compassionate anarchists, and Templars are benevolent dictators,” Desmond summarized. “And, maybe that got twisted somewhere down the line. Maybe Assassins started caring more about the anarchy part and Templars the dictator part. Maybe, because we got desperate, Assassins turned to a scorched earth policy. It didn’t matter who got hurt, because it was for the greater good.” He bit his lip, thinking of Clay and Lucy. “But my group isn’t like that, believe me when I say that I want my group to be guardians. Of free will, of the right to live without fear. Keepers of knowledge humanity isn’t ready for yet, but when they are we’ll give it to them. I want that. That’s what it means to be an Assassin to me, okay? I died with that belief.” 

Warmth spread through his mind as his ancestors’ pride pulsed like a bright glow.

“Sorry, you _died!?_” Nicole sputtered, ruining the moment. Aiden raised an eyebrow and gave him a thorough once-over. 

“You don’t look very dead to me.”

“I _thought _I was going to die,” Desmond amended hastily. “I gave up everything for that belief. Look, the Templars run Abstergo. They’re the mysterious benefactors, and it isn’t out of the goodness of their hearts. I got kidnapped because they wanted my blood.”

“They wouldn’t go after Jackson,” Nicole argued. “He’s just a teenager.”

“I was eleven when they took me,” Avery said quietly from the doorway. Desmond opened his arms and she promptly walked over to snuggle against his side. 

“You were eleven?” Aiden murmured. She nodded. “And they took you.”

“White van walking home from school.” 

“No, that’s not- they wouldn’t-“

“They took my son,” Desmond said softly. Avery squeaked in surprise in response and he gave her a pointed look. _Later_. Her slight nod of understanding was everything. “A strike team took him in the middle of the night, his mom tried to defend herself and him... she’s dead now, and I can’t find him.” He let out a shuddering breath. “He was... ten. And now he’s twelve. Been missing two years. That’s what they do. They find what they like and pursue it no matter what.”

“I need to erase Jackson’s data from the server,” Aiden said immediately, sitting up with a groan and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Nicole pushed him back into the pillows.

“Oh no you don’t. You just got shot, you need your rest.” Her eyes were hard as flint. “I don’t need the Vigilante right now, Aiden. I need _you_. Besides, Desmond was going to hack into the files anyway. Weren’t you, Desmond?”

“Find any information on my people or people like us, copy it and delete it, and maybe find something that can help me start tracking my son,” Desmond affirmed. Avery snuggled more closely against his side, her body heat comforting just as he knew she’d intended. Best not-sister ever. “Seriously Aiden, get some sleep man.”

“No, I’m _going_,” Aiden said stubbornly. “I made a mistake in Chicago, and my- my niece paid the price for it. I can’t let them get to Jackson too when this time no one did anything wrong. And for what? His blood?”

“Okay, fine. Just- It’s 6:00AM, okay? We can’t do anything until this evening.” Aiden nodded, fixing the Assassin with a look. 

“Then you’d better finish your little backstory.”

He did. Afterward, Aiden helped them look up Avery’s family in Arizona only to discover no one lived in the house anymore. It was like they’d vanished off the face of the planet. 

-/\\-

When evening rolled around once again it was to Desmond and Aiden in the front seats of the man’s beat up pickup truck and Avery sulking in the back seat. She’d learned that calling Shotgun didn’t work on people who were immune to her puppy dog eyes and it was a cruel world she’d been subjected to. 

They were back on the road to a server farm about ten minutes past the Arkansas border and this time Desmond let his senses roam freely. His ancestors were alert and on the prowl as he kept his eyes on the road, but so far the only thing hunting them was a random pack of coyotes that quickly scattered when they realized what they were up against. All in all, the night was much quieter than it had on the previous expedition. Then again, getting shot at by... Huh. 

“Desmond, what exactly happened last night?” Aiden asked, voice drowning out the soft ambiance of the radio permanently stuck on a country station no matter how hard he tried to fix it otherwise without going into the shop.

“You almost hit someone crossing the street and had to brake hard,” Desmond answered without glancing away from the road. “Soon as we rolled to a stop they tried to rob us. It was a setup, basically. You got shot.”

“And... what happened to...”

“...”

“...Oh.” 

The silence in the car was palpable. 

“I didn’t know you were a dad,” Avery whispered as they cased the exterior of the Abstergo building. Aiden was by the truck, Profiler in hand as he hacked the security feeds, and with their Bluetooths in their ears he was their eyes. 

“I wasn’t,” Desmond murmured back. “Until Mavis pointed him out to me in a file I thought his mom had miscarried all those years ago. She lied. To protect me, herself, Elijah...” he sighed heavily, shoulders slumping. “I don’t know anymore, Avery. I’ve quit asking myself why at this point in the interests of not driving myself any more insane than I already am.” 

“...Right. So, what do you think of Aiden? He seemed really interested in our Order. Really committed to doing what needs to be done to protect the people and free speech, never mind the consequences. You gonna ask if he-“

“I’ll think about it, but I’m hoping he’ll bring it up himself. Guy’s lost a lot and I don’t want him to have to choose between us and family because he feels he owes me or something.” 

Avery was about to reply when the static in their earpieces frizzed, resolving into an open channel.

_“All good to go on my end,” _Aiden’s gravelly voice said almost cheerfully. The two Assassins exchanged a wry grin. 

“Time to get to work,” Desmond responded in a genuinely cheerful tone. 

_“You guys get way too much enjoyment out of this.”_

“Funny, could say the same about you.” Eagle Vision illumined the complex and picked out the bright red security - both guards and camera fields - amongst the shimmering indigo buildings. White, useful objects glowed here and there, but eventually a bright golden object exploded before him accompanied by one of the people lighting up like a firework. “I count twenty guards and at least twelve cameras you’re still working on isolating. The terminal we want is at the far end of the complex, third floor. Head of security’s got the access code we need to get into the system without tripping any alarms. I miss anything?”

_“...Dude, you’re sitting in a _tree. _How is it you can see more of the layout than me when I’m patched into their feed!?” _

“I have my ways.”

“Show-off,” Avery said, coughing loudly into her sleeve to distort the word.

“Avery, if you’re coming down with a cold you should probably join Aiden at the truck and stay warm,” Desmond retorted, struggling to suppress a snicker as she glared at him. In response she took a running leap and vaulted the chain link fence with the barbed wire at the top as if it were no big concern, landing on nimble toes and waiting impatiently for him to join her. 

_“Wow,” _Aiden murmured over comm. _“That’s... you teach her that?”_

“Nope,” Desmond chuckled as he followed over after. “We learned the same way but from some very different people.”

_“Well it’s... it’s impressive. I always fancied myself a free-runner but that...”_

“You should see us scale this upcoming sheer wall. Oh wait, you will.” 

“Des!” Avery hissed. “Hurry up!” 

“Wait for the patrol, Avery! You scale it now you’ll get caught.”

“...Fine...” 

The guards passed, Avery squirming against his side with impatience as they crouched behind a low wall, and then they ran. Desmond felt immense satisfaction in the familiar ache of his muscles, the burn in his fingers, as he climbed the mostly-sheer surface one flight up. Two flights up, then finally three before hoisting himself onto the roof. The light thud of Avery’s boots was the only indication she had been next to him, and as one they dodged the field of one of the very few cameras Aiden hadn’t been able to hack. Then they were behind the air conditioning unit, Avery was picking the lock on the door with the occasional help from him, and they were inside. Descending one floor down, they ended up in a series of catwalks that spanned the massive ceiling of the floor below. Desmond snuck up noiselessly behind the head of security and effortlessly swiped his access key to get access to the server at the correct terminal. 

_“That was scary_,_” _Aiden whispered. 

“What are you, six??” Avery snickered. Neither of them were speaking above a barely-audible level.

_“I’m forty-two.”_

“...Oh. He’s even older than you,” she needled. Desmond sighed. 

“I’m twenty-nine, I’m not ancient.” 

“Well if you factor in Alt-“

“We’re not going there. Now look, pay attention. You see that guy two floors down?”

_“How can you see through the flo-“_

“Yep.”

_“_ ** _What!?_ ** _” _

“Not now Aiden,” Desmond muttered dismissively. He drew close to Avery as they crouched low to the grating of the catwalk and pointed, EV painting a vibrant image in swirling indigo. “He’s going to be an issue because his round takes him right past the terminal I need to be working at. Take him out.”

“Kill, distract, or coat closet?” Avery asked, entirely business. 

“Coat closet. Just make sure he’s unconscious first or he’ll start a racket.”

“Gotcha.” 

_“You people are absolutely terrifying,” _Aiden muttered as Desmond went to work on getting the files and Avery slipped off to take out their unwelcome guest. _“...I like it.”_

“We get that a lot,” Desmond chirped back ever so softly. “Now where exactly am I supposed to be looking?” He listened patiently as Aiden walked him through the steps, utilizing Clay’s specific Abstergo-related expertise more often than not as he went, and determined kept at it. Aiden’s voice eventually petered off, going quieter and quieter until he was barely saying anything at all, and Desmond paused in sifting through the files.

“Aiden? You still with me?”

_“...Yeah. I was just thinking.”_

“‘Bout what?”

_“Life, meaning, how I might have gotten my meds messed up a bit...” _he didn’t laugh when Desmond chuckled. _“Seriously though. These people, these- Templars- they just... what gives them the right to think they can take kids away from their families, huh? And you say they do this all over the world?” _

“Everywhere. For instance, I’m looking at a file for a village in Papua New Guinea they’ve been eyeing.” Aiden swore, loudly, and Desmond winced as Avery let out an ‘Ooh’ noise over the comm. “Thanks man, she’s going to be adding those to her multi-lingual swear chart.”

_“...Sorry. To be honest I forgot she was on there.”_

_“What, I’m just a pretty face?” _Avery retorted sarcastically. _“I took out a few more guards by the way. Apparently they got a hot tip this place might be a target so they sent extra patrols.”_

_“Lemme check,” _Aiden offered. There was the audible sound of a laptop keyboard clacking away for a few moments. _“Jeez. Desmond, we need to leave. Now.”_

“How much time, exactly, do I have before they show up?” Desmond asked calmly as he watched the copy percent bar slowly fill out. 

_“Ten minutes, give or take, but we need to be long gone by then. They’ll be scoping the area.”_

“Right. Avery, go with him. I’ll meet you back at Nicole’s house.”

_“What!? Didn’t you hear-“_

_“Aiden, he knows what he’s doing,” _Avery soothed. _“I’m not happy, but I get it. I know I couldn’t make it, but you can. Do what you need to, Des. We’ll be waiting. I’m heading down now.”_

_“If you’re staying then I’m staying,” _Aiden groused stubbornly. Desmond sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Aiden, you’ve been shot. You can’t drive. Avery needs to leave, and while I don’t like her driving she’s experienced with a few different types of vehicles. Trust her. I’ll be fine.”

_“I still don’t like this.”_

“Neither do I, but we need to finish the mission. See you later.” 

At that, Desmond pulled the comm out of his ear and stuffed it in one of his pockets. He brought Clay’s knowledge directly to the front of his memories and made liberal use of his pilfered skills, noting with minor interest that his ancestors seemed to be picking bits and pieces more useful than others and shoving those forward as their little attempt at helping out. He shook his head slightly at that. It was still pretty weird, having different fully-formed personalities existing in his head autonomous of himself that he was aware of and could communicate with. 

It also gave him a headache. 

_Apologies, _Connor murmured, and Desmond got the sense he was about to withdraw.

_Well don’t stop now, _he replied, trying to project his gratitude for the help as best he could and getting only mild confusion back. _Okay then. Sending emotions doesn’t work too well_.

_Not really. It was a nice effort though. _

Desmond went incredibly still as his eyes landed on a particular sub-folder hidden behind multiple coded and locked files.

“Bingo.”

He was only vaguely disappointed to see nothing on Elijah recognizing that nothing was ever that simple, but dutifully read over the contents in a skim and noted information pertaining to a lab owned by a Dr. Gramática. What little he saw made him sick, but he copied the information all the same. Cloning. And he had the last remaining samples of Desmond’s DNA. Well, it was high time he destroyed those. And all that lovely information on Those Who Came Before - the Isu - would come in handy. Not to mention the Templars should never have access to that kind of stuff. Ever. 

Desmond finished copying the files to the thumb drive Charity had given him, erased the entire system server after isolating harmless patient files pertaining to actual medical practice in the clinics, and then headed for the roof. He was halfway toward the access when the door below burst open and a gun went off in the server room. He crouched low to the catwalk, rolling behind a small partition, and then ran. More gunfire exploded in the building and he course-corrected, aiming for the nearest window and shattering it with one of his throwing knives before leaping through. 

The snow was cold but just enough of a cushion that the impact of the landing didn’t shatter his ankles, and he kept running. Now that he was in a white environment the small splashes of red on his hoodie stood out a lot less than two vivid colors in a dark, slate grey server room. He soon lost his pursuers by apprehending one of their vehicles, and drove back to St. Louis only to deposit the truck in front of their own clinic. Make of that what they will. 

Since they’d seen him, Desmond stopped in the restroom of the Starbucks they’d visited earlier and reversed his hoodie. The vibrant red color with splashes of black was a statement, but that was the point. The more outstanding it looked compared to his forgettable white standard, the easier the eye would discount it in a passing glance. 

_You caught it kind of close there, _Haytham remarked in a carefully neutral voice. Desmond shrugged, ignoring the disapproval he and Altaïr were radiating.

_Couldn’t be helped, _Ezio countered. _We needed that information and they would have known someone had broken in. There wasn’t another chance. Besides, it worked out okay in the end. _

_He almost got shot, _Connor retorted. _In the head. _

_Well, _I _thought it was worth it and even enjoyable, _Edward grumped.

_Says the man who loved starting bar fights._

_Hey! I quit that when I had to take care of Jennifer!_

_That’s true, _Haytham sighed. _I never actually saw him drunk when I was growing up. _

_See? _

_Indulgence of alcohol is a sin, _Altaïr broke in quietly. He was met with strong opposition from literally everyone including Desmond, who after being reminded that he was roofied in his own bar conceded that there was a time and a place for everything so long as one was careful. 

-/\\-

They were standing in the Pearce backyard looking out at the lights of the city, puffs of fog emanating from their mouths. Avery and Jackson were bonding over something called Fortnite and Nicole was busy washing the glasses from a light celebratory drink the three adults had taken, so it was just the two of them. 

“I’m coming with you when you leave,” Aiden said without preamble. 

“Thought you might,” Desmond replied softly with a nod. 

“What, no resume? No trial period? You’ll just take me on, just like that?”

“You’re doing this for your family and other families hurt by Abstergo just like yours,” Desmond explained. “You got shot and went with us anyway to finish the job, then were reluctant to leave me behind even though you’d known me less than 24 hours even though your injury meant you would’ve been either caught or killed. You’re experienced, you know what it takes to survive, and you’re protective of those who can’t fend for themselves. What more do I need to know?”

“...Fair point.” Aiden heaved a heavy sigh, a large burst of vapor issuing from his mouth. “Any special initiation ritual I need to make? I’m not exactly a joiner. Not sure I want to be one of your Assassins.”

“We allow Outsiders, like Erudito, to work with us without the title of Assassin,” Desmond assured him with a slight smile. “You can be a free agent and break it off with us whenever you feel it’s time, if you want. And hey, if you decide you want to join later on we can work something out. Deal?”

“Deal.” 


	34. Direction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> https://ask-the-almighty-google.tumblr.com/post/610955496883634176/just-some-concept-art-for-desmonds-new-outfit-in
> 
> This is concept art I made for Desmond's new hoodie look. I'm very happy with how it turned out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: SPOILERS FOR THE ENDING OF ASSASSIN’S CREED ORIGINS. READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION. 

_ October of 2017 _

They got the call while setting up camp in the northernmost part of Washington state. It was getting colder out and more people were moving south, and the spot they’d picked in the Louisiana Bayou at Moussa’s suggestion was about to become a problematic place to be. So they moved, at least once a month, from Louisiana to Denver to Wisconsin and finally to an obscure little place about an hour and a half outside Vancouver and the same distance outside of Seattle. 

Erudito had spotted an Abstergo team moving into the Egyptian desert, more accurately in the Qattara Depression. One member of the team had taken camping gear into a cave system while the other had stayed in a nearby hotel, but what was more was that this team seemed to have attracted the attention of an Assassin cell. With that in mind, Desmond had taken Cal and Aiden and gone, leaving Avery guarding their pilfered private plane - which Devon had flown - and gone into town. 

It was a matter of locating the Assassin cell hideout, because they could worry about what the Templars were up to later. 

Aiden was busy doing whatever it was he was busy doing, hacking into local camera feeds and news stations looking for any clue. Cal, eager to prove that he was ready to take his graduation test, had been adamant about coming along with them. He and Desmond maintained a frosty civility toward one another on the mission at all times with Desmond as the instruction evaluator and Cal the test taker, but other than that things were going well. Wonder of all wonders, Cal and Aiden got on like a house afire. Poor Aiden was thus constantly mediating between him and Desmond.

Desmond was sitting on top of a roof because it was the only place he could get any peace and quiet at the moment; Aiden was busy coordinating with three laptops, a contact with Erudito central, and Charity back in Washington. The chatter was incessant, and he needed space to think.

What would he do if they were able to reconnect with the Assassins? What would his people do? The Council had been adamant when they’d said that they would refuse to recognize any other Mentor unless the person had first proved themselves, and he well knew that his father wouldn’t take kindly to that. But he didn’t have a choice. They had to get along. The Assassins were struggling. They needed manpower, supplies... Desmond’s group had that, and there was strength in numbers. Except...

Did he really want to go back to the setup the Assassins operated by? Spread so thin no one could do anything to help one another? It wasn’t the best policy. Top secret missions to save the world that only sanctioned people knew about, taking teenage girls and isolating them from the only world they’d ever known to be deep contact agents embedded in Abstergo? It hadn’t worked well for Lucy, and Desmond tensed up at the very knowledge that Bill would take special interest in Avery due to her training background and abilities. 

_This is such a mess_, he thought internally. 

_I made a choice a long time ago to serve the Assassin Order_, Edward said soothingly. _But above all I made a choice to protect my family over that. I may have failed, but I gave my life trying... Your Order, Desmond, is your family now. There’s no shame in hesitating to rejoin something that might not be best for them, even if it’s best for you._

_...That... was surprisingly wise. You’ve been holding out on me._

_I have my moments. And before anyone can make a snide comment, there aren’t many. But I make them count as best I can. _

_Thanks. _

_I made the same decision,_ Haytham added quietly. _I know this is little consolation, Connor, but when we fought I knew I would not survive our encounter. My old injury would never have allowed it. This hardly makes up for anything else I put you through, but know that at the end I would rather you have lived an Assassin than for me to have survived a Templar having killed my own son._

_It did not feel like you were holding back,_ Connor snorted.

_Who said anything about holding back? I simply said I knew I wouldn’t be able to best you and went to my death fully aware of the fact beforehand._

_...Oh._

“Desmond?” Cal called from the skylight. Desmond shook himself out of the internal conversation and glanced over at the other man. “Aiden’s been able to parse out the name of the Assassin the Brotherhood sent.”

“Who is it?”

“No last name, no proper first name really. Just... Bill.”

“Right,” Desmond sighed. He looked out over the city and narrowed his eyes as he flicked into Eagle Vision. “See you soon, dad.” 

-/\\-

“Abstergo just sent Sigma Team to take out their two operatives!” Aiden exclaimed. They had been in Egypt for the better part of a week now trying to track Bill’s movements, and now that they’d finally got a lock on him something more important typically came up. “They’ve got two strike groups, one to take out each.”

“The one in the desert?” Desmond asked sharply.

“It looks like the Assassin’s already headed out that way. But the one in the hotel... she isn’t even field trained, Des. What do you want us to do, because as soon as the Assassin gets too far out into the desert we’re gonna lose him.” Desmond swore quietly under his breath and paced. There was no choice, not really. 

“We go to the hotel,” he muttered as he pulled up his hood and checked to make sure his weapons were secure. “Come on Cal. Aiden, head back to the plane. We may need to get out of here quick and it’ll take a little while to pack up this equipment.”

“You got it.” 

“I don’t mean to pry, but who exactly is this Assassin to you?” Cal asked as they rushed out the door. “It’s just, I can tell you know him-“

“He’s my dad.” Cal swore. “Exactly.”

The streets were eerily empty as they ran toward the hotel, Aiden having been kind enough to figure out the room the operative was staying in early on into their surveillance operation. As they got closer they heard the sound of rapid gunfire. Neither bothered exchanging a glance; they were both highly trained and it was easy for one to trust that the other knew what they were doing. 

Cal took the main entrance while Desmond scaled the building up to the third floor, sliding in through a conveniently-open window into a room and apologizing in rapid Arabic to the cowering family in the corner. Inhaling deeply, he paused at the doorway and clipped his lower face mask into place before stepping into the hallway. 

Smoke was pouring through the door of the Abstergo worker’s room, periodically illumined with opaque density from the flash of gunfire, and flicking into EV Desmond slipped unnoticed into the hotel space. No one was firing back, giving him the impression that they were either a lab tech low-level Templar or an entirely untrained innocent Abstergo employee who happened to have been assigned to the wrong project at the wrong time. Sensitive hearing just made out the sound of someone crying in the corner and he determined it was the latter rather than the former of the two options. That was good. There was an opportunity to get a new recruit. 

_If you can keep them alive,_ Haytham pointed out drily. _Such a waste of ammunition these men are using. Shameful. _

_Disappointed in your brethren, Haytham? _Ezio snickered.

_As a matter of fact, yes. And what about _your _brethren, sending only one agent - and the Mentor at that - to a dangerous mission without aid because there aren’t enough for a decent team? Or even a regular Master Assassin, hm? It makes no sense to send the Mentor for what obviously appeared at first glance to be a simple reconnaissance mission, especially when he’s not in too fine health and, from Desmond’s memories, not a huge proponent in the proper upkeep of one’s physical aptitude. Furthermore-_

_She’s on the other side of the room, and she seems scared, _Altaïr said calmly. Desmond sighed in relief as the chattering faded into an annoying background buzz, ignored for the most part as Altaïr allowed him to focus. It faded almost entirely as he felt Connor’s soothing... aura... mental... whatever... join the Levantine Mentor’s at the forefront. He didn’t say anything, but he was watchful and that was enough. 

_Of course she’s scared, _Desmond hissed mentally as he noiselessly ducked behind an overturned table and avoided the gunfire. _People are trying to kill her. _

_I meant that she seemed uninjured, but_\- everything fell silent as a shriek rent the air and the sharp tang of blood assaulted Desmond’s nose even through the mask. His heightened senses really were something else. _I amend my statement... _

“Target wounded! Finish her off!” 

_Okay, that’s enough of that, _Edward said angrily. 

_My thoughts exactly, _Desmond growled. He was up and pivoting on one hand over the top of the table, his foot striking directly into one of the tactical team’s noses. As they reared back with an aborted shout of surprise - his other foot had got them in the larynx - he landed on his toes on one foot and pirouetted the leg in the air to come up and knee someone else in the groin. His fist smashed into the protective goggles of his third victim, the material cracking inward and gouging into the eyes. 

The forth strike member whirled around as her team fell around her in a matter of seconds, just in time to catch the Assassin in white and red with the crimson mask as he leapt into the air and brought both feet to crack her rib cage. She fell to the ground with a choked wheeze as Desmond landed neatly on his hand and did a backflip to end up on his feet once more. There was a general commentary of praise and helpful critique on his style and execution which he left largely ignored as he stepped over the unconscious Abstergo victims and moved to their target. 

She was decently attractive, he supposed; Late twenties to early thirties, fair skin that was a tad sun-burned and had light freckles on the shoulders and tops of the feet, visible due to her tank top, capri shorts, and flip flops. Her hair was sandy blonde, less on the gold and more on the tan side of things, and fell to her shoulders. Even though her hazel (more brown than green) eyes were blown wide with pain and fear, they still held his attention for the betrayal and intelligence he saw there. 

“W- who-“

“I’m here to help,” Desmond soothed, crouching onto his heels. Fighting was going on downstairs, but he was confident Cal would take care of it. He still had a lot of book learning to do, but as far as Desmond was concerned he had earned his Assassin field rank once he completed his studies. Sigma team was nothing to sneeze at; he’d just been lucky to take them entirely by surprise. Also, Otso Berg seemed to have vanished. 

_Don’t assume anything, _Ezio warned. 

_I won’t, I promise. _“Can you tell me your name?”

“De- Deanna Geary,” She bit out, clutching at her side as blood pooled around her fingers. “I worked on the Philadelphia Medical Team. I just- I just wanted to help. I wa- was trained to help. Why did they hurt me?”

“They’re Templars,” he said quietly. “And you hadn’t followed their criteria, or you’d outlived your usefulness. Considering value of the intellect, I’m willing to bet it was a bit of both.” 

“You’re an Assassin, aren’t you?” Deanna asked warily, attempting to shift away from him and letting out a cry of pain at the movement. Desmond nodded.

“Yes. I’m offering you two choices, Deanna. Join us. Help us protect the world from the Templars, from hurting anyone else the way they hurt you. Help us. Most of our people have a lot of problems with the Bleeding Effect, and could use some insight from an Animus Tech.”

“And the other option?” 

“I take you to the nearest hospital, and you never hear from us again. I can’t make you join us. Maybe some of us in the past would have... but not this time. No, the Assassins stand for free will. I intend to honor that.” He held out his hand. “What’ll it be?” 

Deanna met his gaze, brow furrowing as she studied him, and then glanced at the four strike members on the floor. They were all severely injured, but none of them were dead. He’d wanted to send a message and they’d tell it (well, the ones without broken voice boxes would). Hesitantly, she took her free hand and placed it in his outstretched one. 

“I... I’ll help you,” she murmured. At that moment, Cal came in. He was splattered in blood but none the worse for wear. 

“Assassin, attend to our newest recruit,” Desmond said evenly. Cal raised an eyebrow but nodded, the rest of his expression hidden by his mask, as he strode over and carefully hefted Deanna into his arms.

“What are you going to do, Mentor?” He asked. Deanna’s eyes grew wide as she glanced back at her rescuer, seeing him in a new light. Desmond’s gaze darkened as he looked at the strike team. 

“I’ve got a message to dictate.”

“Very well.” 

As soon as they were gone, Desmond crouched low next to the one he’d kneed in the groin. He was the only one still conscious, and he started shaking as Desmond drew closer.

“Tell Otso Berg you ran into Assassin trouble, but that the job is done. Got it? Unless you want me to hunt you and finish _my _job, huh?” The man whimpered and nodded, and with a nod of satisfaction Desmond stood and went over to Deanna’s equipment. The hard drives he extracted and replaced with ones that were so damaged they’d been permanently erased, and then for good measure he took the two laptops and threw them hard onto the ground. As a final step he walked across the screens on his way to the window, pausing incrementally to roll his eyes at a comment from Haytham on general Templar incompetence before leaping out onto an adjacent rooftop.

-/\\-

“How’s our patient?” Devon asked. He’d put the plane on autopilot for the next few hours and had come back into the cabin to get some rest. 

“Stable, but sleeping,” Desmond replied, straightening up from his work and admiring the skill that had gone into it. The stitches were neat, the wound clean, and as of this moment well-bandaged. He stepped into the small bathroom and rinsed his hands in the sink, catching his own gaze in the mirror and sighing softly.

_I think I would have made a good nurse. Not a doctor, those guys don’t get to spend as much time with the patients. But a nurse. _There was silence from his ancestors. _...I think I would have liked that. _

_You would not have been good, Desmond, _Connor replied quietly. _You would have been excellent. Your compassion and attention to small detail would have suited you well in that profession._

_...Thanks, Connor._

_You are most welcome. In many ways... I think all of us envisioned something else when we were young. Before our first blood. Before..._

_...Before everything went wrong, _Altaïr finished with a heavy sigh. _Even I, who had trained from the moment of my birth to be an Assassin, imagined myself in the study as the guardian of knowledge, of the warrior of the mind rather than the blade. When my father died, Al Mualim raised me with Abbas and fashioned me into being his perfect weapon. I..._

_I never saw myself as a banker, but I think I would have liked to have had more time in my vineyard from a younger age, _Ezio interrupted gently when it became clear that Altaïr was struggling to dig himself out of the Hole of Vulnerability he had unexpectedly found himself in. _A place where Leonardo could have painted in the fields, and even had a workshop set up in an outside barn. I loved Sofia, but Christina would have liked that too I think. It is because I loved Sofia that I do not regret the path my life led, as I would never have met her otherwise, but I regret some of the ways my feet left marks in the road. _

“Hey, Des! You okay in there?” Devon called, knocking lightly on the door. “I don’t want to have to send in Search and Rescue!”

“Fine, Dev!” Desmond replied quickly, splashing water on his face to shake off the last of his internal ponderings and focus on the things around him. He sighed and stepped back into the cabin. “Just tired.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“You said you were going to explain about the Assassin,” Cal said flatly from his position in a window seat. Desmond glared at him; while he recognized that that was merely the man’s way and he could do absolutely nothing about it, it still drove him up the wall half the time. 

“Yeah, who was he?” Avery asked. He turned slightly to see her sitting with her back against one of the other windows, her legs hooked over the armrest of the chair beside her, playing with some string in what looked like a rather bad attempt at Cat’s Cradle. 

“My dad,” Desmond said shortly. Aiden choked on the water he’d just taken a sip of and turned in his seat to see the rest of the cabin’s occupants. 

“Seriously!?” He exclaimed. Desmond nodded, pinching the bridge of his nose and dropping down into one of the empty seats while Devon and Avery gaped at him. 

“Yeah. Bill, or William, Miles. My dad. Mentor of the modern Assassin Order... well, the other one anyway.”

“So... you had to choose between saving...” Devon paused, waiting for input, which Desmond helpfully gave him.

“Deanna.” 

“Deanna, or seeing your dad again, a man who you last saw before you tried your best to sacrifice yourself for the greater good and believes you’re dead,” Devon summarized. When Desmond nodded he whistled. “Man. And I thought my family life was ten degrees past Severely Messed Up.”

“He used to beat him,” Avery said flatly, scowling. She crossed her arms and pointed to the side of her mouth in example, referencing Desmond’s scar. “I’m glad we didn’t meet up with him.” 

“He never beat me for the fun of it,” Desmond chided. “He thought he was building character through intense discipline. I don’t condone it and I recognize it for what it is, but in a severely twisted way it’s still better than him going on a bender and beating the tar out of me just because the whim struck his fancy.”

“Sounds eerily familiar,” Cal muttered. “At least he didn’t murder your mother as a child and then later tell you that he should have killed you as well.”

“Mom is God knows where,” Desmond sighed. “Apparently, she blamed Dad for me running away the morning of my sixteenth birthday and left him. They’re still married, but they’ve been officially separated ever since and I’m not sure he’d even know where she was at any given moment if he wasn’t responsible for keeping track of that sort of thing.” He frowned. “He probably told her I died after I stopped the sun from roasting the planet, but knowing my mom she would have seen that as the exact opposite of a reason to get back together.” 

“Y’know, since he was there when it happened and he just let you do it,” Avery chipped in casually. Desmond rolled his eyes.

“What about you, huh? Has Charity had any luck finding your family after we went to your old house and a newlywed couple had moved in since you’d last been there?”

“No,” she muttered, slumping further into her seat. 

“You’ll find them, Avery,” Aiden said encouragingly.

“Hey, Boss? Think Sleeping Beauty’s awake,” Devon interrupted quietly. 

“Where, How-“

“You’re okay, Deanna,” Desmond soothed as he stood and walked over to where she was lying on a small bench bolted to the wall of the plane. He took the time to adjust the saline drip in her arm and then nodded. She blinked a few times in confusion before sighing. 

“Layla, how is she...?”

“Your teammate?” He asked softly. She nodded, her energy spent. “We don’t know. From what we can tell, the Abstergo team went silent in the desert. Not Dark, but silent. As in ‘no longer with us.’ Whether that’s because of the Assassin who went there or... something else... we can’t be sure. What was she doing out there anyway?”

“Layla’s stubborn,” Deanna sighed, eyes fluttering open and closed as she fought to stay awake. “She built a portable Animus prototype that can process any extracted DNA put into it, then took it into the field for testing on some preserved Egyptian mummified remains. She- she didn’t make most of her check-ins, I told her she needed to... but that’s Layla. She doesn’t play by the rules, too headstrong. Too impulsive. Too... I hope she’s all right...” 

“What memories was she looking into?”

“Someone... named Bayek of Siwa... I think he had a wife named Aya or Amunet or something or other, but-“

_Amunet, _Ezio breathed reverently. While Connor and Edward seemed confused, Haytham was impressed. Altaïr was a whole other matter entirely.

_Oh, what I wouldn’t give to see their memories, _he said excitedly. Desmond got the impression of someone mentally pacing in the back of his mind and shook his head slightly at the irritating feeling. _The very founders of the Assassin’s Order as we know it today. _

_Not Darius then? _Desmond asked curiously. He got a mental shrug in response. 

_Darius was part of the _Old _Order of our people, _he explained. _While Bayek is mostly forgotten, I once found a packet of letters between him and Amunet some Novice had taken the time to preserve buried in the Sinai. Truly impressive people. She was at the Ides of March, you know. There are conflicting reports but I’m pretty sure she struck the first blow. _

_And if Layla’s got the Bleeding Effect... _Ezio suggested pointedly. 

“I think Layla’s going to be just fine,” Desmond replied, blinking. Deanna raised an eyebrow. 

“How do you know?”

“Uh... call it a hunch.” 

_ A Little Over Two Months Later - December 21st, 2017_

“How’s it going?” Desmond asked. Charity pulled herself out from under a clump of wiring, oil and grime on her face and her hair a mess, and grinned for all she was worth. 

“Have I told you lately how much I love Deanna?” He smirked, pretending to think.

“You may have mentioned you wanted to research the legitimacy of adopting someone as the sister you’d never had, but not today, no.” Charity rolled her eyes and punched him lightly in the shoulder. 

“Deanna’s a genius. She’s totally dedicated to smooth operating, seamless integration, and above all the health of the user. Strict rules for session lengths on a person by person tolerance basis, and Mavis says that she’s been researching the benefits of using the Animus as a part of therapy. Absolutely amazing. Thanks for saving her life.”

“I aim to serve...”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Look, we’re ready to make a test run this evening. Think you can find anyone that would be interested in being a guinea pig?”

“You’re looking at him.”

“Great! I- wait, what?” 

“I’ll go in this evening,” Desmond repeated with a soft smile when she simply stared at him with wide eyes. “Well it’s a no-brainer, isn’t it? Look, I’ve got the highest tolerance and the best reaction to the Animus, as well as the quickest rebound time and complete synchronization with all of the ancestors I’ve been exposed to. I survived a complete nervous breakdown brought on by the Bleeding Effect, for God’s sake. If anything goes wrong I have the best chance of surviving it.” Charity still appeared unconvinced.

“If you say so. Wonder what everybody else has to say about that.” 

“I don’t really care,” he said firmly. “It’s my choice. Mavis and Deanna have already signed off and they both agree I’m the best candidate.”

She simply raised her hands in surrender and shook her head before disappearing back under the wires. 

_Right. So, which one of you fellas is willing to put on a show tonight? _

There was a slight scuffling in the back of his mind and he got the mental image of people pointing fingers in a general game of ‘not me, pick him.’ 

_Oh, that’s how it’s going to be huh? Fine. Work it out among yourselves. I have things I need to do._

_I think it should be Haytham, _Edward said immediately. There was a chorus of agreement from everyone but the man in question.

_Whatever for!?_

_Well, for starters, you let your poor old dad down by being a Templar, then recruited Shay Cormac, who killed my mate Adéwalé, and then went on to wipe all but one of the Colonial Assassins from existence. In short, you owe us._

_I most certainly do not! _

And so the squabbling continued, mostly ignored by Desmond as he started mentally reciting Pi from memory to drown out the noise. Dealing with all of them was doing wonders for his mathematical expertise (or rather Altaïr’s, considering he himself had been a terrible book student as a child). 

-/\\-

“And none of them want to volunteer sharing their lives?” Mavis asked, laughing.

_You try airing all your dirty laundry in front of several people, we’ll see how _you _like it, _Ezio muttered mutinously. 

_Yes, well it won’t be _your _laundry now will it? _Altaïr huffed. _I still don’t understand how I ended up being the one that had to do this. _

_You led a particularly respectable life you see, _Edward explained matter-of-factly. _I, obviously, did not, Connor is too much of a prude to want anyone other than Desmond at those memories, it wouldn’t do to purposefully broadcast any Templar ties, and- well, how would it look to end up in one of Ezio’s passionate summer nights exactly?_

_A far cry better than one of yours, that’s what you-_

_Fine, fine. I still don’t like it, but for the sake of proper representation I’ll do it._

“Desmond?” Mavis asked quietly, her smile fading to be replaced by studious concern.

“I’m fine Mavis,” Desmond reassured quickly. “They’re just in an uproar at the moment, throwing each other under the bus.”

“I see.” She leaned forward slightly. “And how often does something like that happen?”

“I... It’s like having a non-stop peanut gallery in my skull,” he confessed honestly. “But I can handle it.”

“Well. The moment you can’t...”

“You’ll be the first to know. I promise.” 

_Ready, Altaïr? _

_Not particularly, Desmond. It was one thing, knowing that only you were privy to the most personal of memories, but the idea of letting complete strangers see through my eyes... _

_We can do something harmless, okay? You pick. You direct the memory. That way they’ll only see something that you allow them to._

_That... that helps. Thank you. I... I’m a private person by nature, as you well know. This is strange for me. On a number of levels. _

_You and me both. _

“You ready, Desmond?” Deanna called. He tossed them a thumbs-up as he walked into the center of the clear, circular space. 

The new Animus that they were using was very different from the previous ones, but the main idea was that the minds would store the data and the computer would record it. The process would be much more natural that way, and it was achievable by circumventing the neural impulses from the memory center to the sensory center by placing a small, thin device on the user’s forehead. It wrapped around the ear like a Bluetooth and then stuck to the forehead and temple; a thin, sticky silicon pad with wires inside of it. Then, a small needle attached to a tricked-out bracelet would draw a single drop of blood and analyze the DNA structure inside the bracelet band. This connected wirelessly with the Animus computers as well as the headpiece, allowing the user to completely control everything they saw and did instead of being at the mercy of additional techs. The information collected would then be broadcast to holographic projectors laid in a circle and then attached to the tent poles, which formed a perfect dome, and in the space provided the data would be relayed in real-world time, casting the user in third-person POV. At the moment the holograms were entirely superficial, but Abstergo’s advanced technology gave them the future possibility of creating solid objects - like the Holodecks in _Star Trek. _It would just take time.

It was ingenious, ahead of its time, and entirely possible due to an in-depth study of the Apple of Eden and the numerous stolen Abstergo design plans that Deanna had had floating around on her computer when they’d recruited her. The entire thing could have probably sent a fleet of rockets to the moon in 1969, the computer power it processed. 

There was a small, sharp pain as the bracelet collected the drop of blood and Desmond winced, but otherwise gave no indication he was in pain. Slowly, the world of Masyaf in the summer opened up before them. He felt as if he were living in the moment as Altaïr, seeing through his eyes, but to everyone else they saw the immediate area he was in the center of and a simulated projection of what the horizon looked like. 

Stifled gasps sounded off to the side and Desmond blinked, disoriented, before the real world faded back into focus. Clay was peering over Deanna’s shoulder looking at the equipment, and after a few moments he grinned. 

_I can copy myself from your mind into their systems, _he said happily inside Desmond’s head. _Be a living AI helping them all. Can I? Please? _

_I... sure? _Desmond replied a tad uncertainly. He winced again as a slight pulling sensation seemed to tug at his mind, then sighed in relief. Clay’s manifestation took on a significantly-more techy form rather than ghostly, and Charity jumped in alarm as he looked himself over and whistled in approval. 

“What is-“

“I’m Desmond’s distant cousin, and I was Subject 16 from Abstergo’s old Animus project under Warren Vidic,” he explained. “Before I committed suicide I uploaded my consciousness into their database, and when Desmond came along I permanently copied myself into his mind. I’m harmless in there, basically just another set of Animus-synched memories for him to sift through. 

“Anyway, I copied myself into your organization’s entire cloud system. I can access all the information and relay it in the field, even influence your devices.”

“So, let me get this straight: You’re a former Assassin who committed suicide and is now a sentient artificial intelligence acting as a server moderator?” Mavis asked with a raised eyebrow. Clay winked at her, a bold move even for a non-corporeal entity. 

“Just call me the Assassin Jarvis.” Desmond merely blinked at him and huffed in exasperation.

“No, Clay,” he chided. 

“But-“

“No.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: AS OF 02/25/2020, SEMI-WEEKLY UPDATES WILL STOP. PREVIOUSLY, CONTENT HAD BEEN PRE-WRITTEN DUE TO A TRANSFER FROM WATTPAD TO AO3. NOW THAT THE AUTHOR HAS CAUGHT UP, ANY AND ALL UPCOMING CONTENT WILL BE PUBLISHED AS WRITTEN.
> 
> This means, basically, that I write this story concurrently with a Fifth DoctorxRose Tyler fic series called "Something of the Wolf" so that I don't get burned out by either of them, but sometimes I just need a break from writing to recharge. I've loved the comments I've been getting and you lot are so encouraging. At the least the wait time between each chapter will be two weeks unless I am struck by writing frenzy, and at most if I hit writer's block it should be around 3 months (sorry!). I just want you guys to know that I do intend to finish this story and that I have a game plan in mind.


	35. Thirty Seconds to Mars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is wondering, this is Avery’s graffiti:
> 
> https://ask-the-almighty-google.tumblr.com/post/613292861475241984/concept-art-i-made-a-while-back-for-a-symbol-in-my

_ March 2018 _

_“In a string of unsolved break-ins, Abstergo maintains that nothing of value has been taken from their facilities. Official police reports say that, while security has often been found unconscious on-site, no one has been seriously injured. Evidence as to the perpetrators is, CSI maintains, minimal and non-determinative. Whatever the statements from Abstergo, these people are clearly professio-“_

“And you’re sure this tiny little metal rope will support my weight?” Desmond asked, eyeing the new attachment to his right gauntlet dubiously as the newsfeed droned on in the background. Charity had improved upon the design set about by the Victorian Brotherhood in London and made it possible to function as a rappel line, grappling hook, and rope-dart all in one simply by pressurized springs in the anchor of the line that held the tines closed; a closed head traveled more accurately than an open one, apparently. 

Connor, usually more subdued than the others, was ecstatic. He’d loved his rope darts once he’d gotten the hang of them and Desmond actually felt his fingers twitch involuntarily in anticipation. 

“Look, if it could hold up Jacob Frye’s ego it can hold up your skinny butt,” Charity retorted with exasperated amusement. 

“Mavis highly recommends my butt. Quality butt material according to my PT chart, hear that? Quality.” 

“Really don’t see the appeal.” 

“Guess you don’t have good, refined taste then.” 

“Des, think of it this way,” Charity reasoned, leaning on the table they were sitting at in her workroom with a smirk. “I see mine every day. And it’s really not fair to compare my ribeye with your ground chuck, okay?”

“Ouch. You’ve wounded me. I’m mortally offended. I fear I shall never recover.” 

“Slap a little barbecue sauce on it, it’ll heal quick enough,” Moussa called amusedly from the door. The pair sprang away from their perches so quickly that Desmond ended up ‘owling’ on the overturned stool leg, and Charity on the floor. “Relax, you two. Just wanted to point out that there’s a general meeting in half an hour in the commons.”

“Who called it?” Charity asked, wincing as she brushed herself off. 

“Felix is concerned with the amount of publicity we’re attracting,” Moussa explained. “In particular Avery’s... street art.”

_Told you it was a bad idea, _Altaïr murmured pointedly. To his credit the remark wasn’t smug, but he’d expressed several concerns about the defacement of Abstergo property. 

What Avery had been doing was simple, really. She would go to the nearest Abstergo logo in the building - of which there were many - and paint over it with a specific symbol. She’d even labeled it ‘_Animi Libertini_,’ which meant ‘_Liberated Spirits_,’ off on the side of one of her jobs at one point. The stencil was simple. The Abstergo logo, with pieces breaking off of it, painted in white. There were seventeen pieces, triangles morphing into diamonds morphing into rhombuses before the final transformation into a bird taking flight. They were small, more like shards than anything else, and falling away from the Abstergo triangle. Ingenious, really, and with the significance behind the name it was all the more brilliant for the inability to define any specific disgruntled group responsible for the break-ins. 

Personally, Desmond preferred general meetings over council meetings. They meant that anyone with the rank of Assassin (and due to extenuating circumstances, the only two Initiates in their cadre as well as the well-trusted Erudito allies were included in this also) met for an all-around discussion and vote. It had been important to the council and Connor - since the homestead had worked under a general equality system when he was there - that this happen, and despite initial doubts the rest of Desmond’s ancestors had eventually grudgingly agreed that it made sense to get _everyone’s _opinion on matters that did not require immediate action. When it had proved not only successful but healthy to the group dynamic of their accidental Order, all but Haytham had warmed to it immensely. Haytham, of course, saw the benefits but couldn’t quite bring himself to outright say that free will was an essential part of human existence without choking on his Templar principles, something that the others had quietly teased him about endlessly. 

Oddly enough, despite his being a Templar, Haytham got along best with Altaïr. They bonded practically outright on the betrayal of their respective mentors and the mutiny in the ranks of their respective brotherhoods when they had come back after several years of absence to find a usurper in their role (for Altaïr this was literal with Abbas, and for Haytham it was figurative with Charles Lee, who had shaped the Colonial Templars into something Haytham no longer approved of). Their temperaments matched as well; both were studious and always carried themselves with a respectful poise, neither ones to suffer fools gladly nor soon forget a misdeed made against them but dangerously loyal to those they trusted and loved. They had both fallen for strong, beautiful women from the opposing side and had had their fathers taken from them at the young age - Altaïr barely eleven, Haytham just ten - and had been raised by a guardian in the form of the mentors who would later betray them. 

Connor had taken an extreme liking to his grandfather. Despite their polar opposite personalities, both were kind of heart to those they cared about and felt a distinct calling to the sea. They felt more at home in the untamed wilderness whether it be North America or the Caribbean than in the civilized towns of European-influenced settlement, and while one would assume that Altaïr would have bonded with Ezio leaving Haytham the lonely odd man out this was not the case. Ezio bonded with Edward over their more expressive extroverted natures and their desire for adventurous exploration, thus bridging a gap between Ezio and Connor that was further strengthened by their mutual interest in helping the people with tasks no matter how small or menial just for the sake of being helpful. Ezio, however, due to his studious nature and interest in Leonardo’s inventions, also bonded with Altaïr and thus bridged a gap with Haytham further strengthened by Haytham’s trips into Constantinople - which during his time was Istanbul. Thus, instead of an odd man out, there happened to be a swing man who jumped from one pairing to the other depending on what mood of discourse struck his fancy. 

It was this odd dichotomy of interpersonal ancestral relationships Desmond brought to every meeting he attended whether it be council or general, and today it seemed that the bases would be loaded once again on whatever issue presented itself. Altaïr and Haytham were all against announcing their presence with Avery’s artwork, Edward and Connor wishing they’d just kick in the front door and shout it to the world to get things over and done with so Abstergo would know not to mess with them. Ezio could honestly go either way and Desmond usually found himself in the swing vote position as well, the influence of all his ancestors coalescing into whichever way Ezio swung it simply because his own thoughts on such matters also took the benefits vs drawbacks approach rather than forming a strict opinion on whether to be more conservative or liberal on a case by case basis. There were times the sneaky approach was better, and there were times the heavy-handed approach was better. It all depended.

So, while he knew the information, Desmond would listen to the different ideas and opinions floating around in his Brotherhood and form his own opinion afterwards. He was inclined to be prejudiced toward leaning Avery’s way and knew it, so better to be safe than sorry. He had half an hour before the meeting started, so he went looking for Charlie. 

The man was knee-deep in the midst of some sort of unidentifiable goop that _appeared _to be organic, and Desmond was reminded that he had a dual degree in both the technical and medical aspects of biochemical engineering. He was smart, smart and dedicated, and he often forgot that about his friend due to Charlie’s easygoing attitude. When he caught sight of Desmond he straightened immediately, a wide smile on his face.

“Yo, Des! Come see this!” 

“...What exactly is it?” 

“No idea. Jack was studying it and left me to guard it.”

“So... you’re knee deep in it. That makes total sense.”

“Doesn’t it just?”

“We have a general meeting in... ten minutes,” Desmond sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can you get cleaned up by then?”

“Sure.” Charlie hopped out of the tub he’d been in and padded over to a pressure hose, causing Desmond to take several steps back to avoid getting hit by the spray.

“Watch it!” 

“Nah, little water never hurt anybody.”

“It’s what’s coming off _in _the water that I’m worried about,” Desmond muttered, eyeing the pink residue dubiously as it traveled toward the drain. Charlie shrugged, unable to hide his smile, and after a few minutes the pair moved toward their self-established ‘commons’ area. Most everyone was already there, quiet murmuring and soft whispers giving the whole thing an even more informal attitude. Desmond got several respectful nods but not much else and suppressed a pleased grin at that; it had taken months upon months of training, but he’d finally gotten everyone to treat him like a regular human being again. 

It was with this sense of equality that he sat somewhere in the middle of the crowd and listened to Felix begin the meeting, idly listening to the different arguments being flung back and forth. For the most part they were congenial, but every once in a while they progressed into shouting matches and it was on such occasions that Felix would step in and break up the argument to resume a peaceful and respectful debate. 

In the end, the consensus (with a startling landslide majority) decided that it wouldn’t be the proper Assassin thing to do to suppress information from the general public. Maybe that was the way some of their ancestors had done it, but they had the goal of serving the people from the dark as first priority. If the people came to a conclusion for themselves, then so be it. Avery could continue putting up her art, at least the stuff she had already done, because it had already been seen. As their M.O. was the same wherever they went the intelligent CSI crews would have no trouble connecting cases, so it didn’t make sense to suddenly stop putting out their calling card. 

-/\\-

_“Another raid on an Abstergo monitoring station has left police baffled. Abstergo still refuses to comment at this time-“_

“So, what? Bamboo under the fingernails?” The Templar spat condescendingly, the news report muting as his interrogator walked in. He pulled against the soft restraints currently pinning him to a pole with a glare and watched as Desmond pulled up a chair at a dusty table with wary eyes. 

“You’re here because you’ve been in contact with a group called The Instruments of the First Will,” Desmond explained calmly, opening a folder and thumbing through the documents. “They have a Sage that we’re interested in finding.”

“Do your worst. I’ve been trained to hold up under every kind of torture imaginable.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Geez, Des,” Mavis muttered as Luke and Jack dragged the poor, sobbing man out of the room. “There’s not a mark on him. What did you _do!?_”

“I read off that list of Dad Jokes I’ve been working on,” Desmond said proudly, glancing down at the document in question. “I’d say they’re a success. He just couldn’t take it anymore. Told me everything.” 

“They were so bad he spilled to get you to shut up?” Mavis asked, quirking an eyebrow. Desmond nodded, smiling proudly. “That’s not something I’d want to advertise.”

“No, see, Clay’s been helping me research this whole thing. Dad Jokes are supposed to be terrible. The worse they are, the more skilled you are at the joke-making process.”

“And you’ve made this your hobby because...?”

“Well, I _am _a dad. I want to be prepared for when we find him.”

“God help that poor child,” Mavis muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Do you have an idea of where the Instruments are headed?” Desmond’s expression darkened. 

“The lab of Dr. Gramaticá,” he growled. “He’s that creep trying to make Precursor clones. For obvious reasons I really want to destroy any samples he might have there, and get my son - who coincidentally happens to be a Sage - as far away from him as possible.”

“Why were they headed there?” Charlie asked curiously, coming up on his other side. 

“Songbird back there said that they’d found the real Koh-I-Noor in Spain and were taking it to him for Ah... safe keeping.”

“Sounds ominous.”

“He’s a mad scientist Charlie, of course it’s ominous,” Mavis grumbled. “Where is this lair of his located, anyway?” Desmond merely smiled and tapped the side of his head, causing her to groan. “Oh, no. Not planes. Anything but planes...” 

And it was, of course. It was planes. 

_“Social media have christened the unknown group Vox Populi, after the symbol that has become so familiar with Abstergo break-ins in the recent weeks. It leaves everyone wondering though: when will they step forward?”_

“Uh... how about never?” Moussa suggested with a smirk. Charlie huffed good-naturedly as he turned off the radio. The plane ride had been as relaxing as ever, seeing as Devon was scarily good at flying the thing, and a private passenger plane attracted a lot less notice if it disappeared en route to a dinky little airstrip in the middle of nowhere as opposed to a commercial jet. Mavis didn’t seem to think so, clinging to the armrests of her seat and groaning with each light turbulence adjustment despite having taken anxiety pills before boarding. 

“I’m all for letting them know we’re out there, yeah, but I don’t want to go to an interview,” Avery muttered. “That’s kinda scary.”

“And it would compromise the brotherhood,” Moussa pointed out. He’d been against the graffiti from the beginning. 

“Yo, coming in to land!” Devon called from the cockpit. “Buckle up!” Desmond peered out the window as the plane whined and shook, touching down on a long strip of river with its special aquatic landing gear. The exterior was foggy from the river, mainly shrub terrain, pitch black, and was in the middle of nowhere in Australia. All in all, it screamed Creepy Mad Scientist™️ lives here. 

However...

“That’s not right,” Charlie said a split moment before Desmond could point out the obvious. He leapt from his seat and was out the door in seconds, sloshing through the river up to his knees with nary a grumble as he approached the body of what appeared to be a young man. There was blood everywhere; amateur work as well as Assassin work was at play. “What happened here do you think?”

“It’s still going on,” Desmond muttered, tilting his head slightly to locate the faint sound of conflict no one else was able to hear. After a few moments he padded stealthily in a chosen direction and his compatriots crept after, leaving Mavis on the plane until they could give her the all-clear. She might have been trained in self-defense, but she was no Assassin. 

“Permission to take point?” Charlie asked softly. “If there’s anything in that lab that’s dangerous, I’m your best bet at figuring out what that is.”

“Granted,” Desmond whispered, dropping back a few paces as Charlie took the lead. They circled the recessed building until they found a good entry point and dropped in through a conveniently broken window, landing in the middle of what looked to be, quite frankly, condensed chaos. 

Weak red light coated everything in a sinister hue as sirens blared, and there was something slick on the floor that Desmond realized after a few seconds was blood. They followed the trail to see Gramaticá himself recently dead with a few other individuals nearby; the gruesome display was absolutely nothing compared to the monstrosity of his lab creations.

“We need to blow this place sky high,” Devon muttered, pulling out the C-4 and detonators. 

“Get on that with Avery.”

“But-“

“I don’t want you in here,” Desmond said bluntly. “This place is enough to give _me _nightmares, let alone you. Help Devon blow it up.”

“...Fine...” 

“Violet DeCosta and an unidentified male,” Moussa called from further down. “Also, no sign of Elijah or the Koh-I-Noor. But there are two Shrouds of Eden in here that I’d like to keep the Templars away from.” 

“Pick ‘em up, box ‘em, and get ‘em back to Mavis.”

“Will do. Should I return here afterward?”

“...No, they’ll be done planting their explosives by then.”

Once the others had gone Desmond and Charlie cautiously explored the place, sickened to the core by what they found. There were rows of tanks filled with failed experiments of one sort or another, some looking like ghouls and others those ghosts from _Ghostbusters _despite being solid. On one of the tables, an operating table, lay the flayed open remains of a badly charred experiment. Blood was seeping from the table to the floor in a thick congealing puddle and even Desmond’s ancestors mentally recoiled when Desmond’s foot slipped in it. 

“We should go,” Desmond murmured uneasily. “We should really, really... go.”

“I want to properly erase the hard drives first,” Charlie protested. “Make sure Abstergo can’t send another Grade A genius psychopath to continue what he left off.”

“Pretty sure he’s a confirmed insane sociopath, but...” Charlie sat himself down at computer and started typing, so Desmond seated himself on the edge of the desk and uneasily swung his feet back and forth. After a few moments, power in the entire room shut down. “Dude, what did you do?”

“I think- I think Gramaticá had an anti-theft safeguard installed,” came the shaky reply. “It cut off power to the entire room.” Several of the containment tanks hissed open and they both audibly swallowed. “To everything.”

“Not good,” Desmond groaned. There was a painful moment of tense, unbearable silence before the still air was rent with the shrill shriek of whatever those abominations were, and then utter chaos and terror as they fought for their lives in a badly-lit room. “EV! Now!”

They both flicked into it and ran into a powered portion of the complex, noting that their other team members had run in at the sound of the kerfuffle, and and when they turned it was to find the monstrosities bearing down on them. 

Desmond grunted as one caught him around the throat and threw him against the wall. A myriad of colors exploded in his mind as his skull audibly connected and cracked on the poured cement, and he saw stars as he fell to the floor. His mind was on fire.

“Desmond? Desmond!”

_Come now, Charles. Don’t be unpleasant. We have many ways to go yet and we shall need their help._

_It is better to have faith in something than none at all._

“Desmond, say something!”

_Do not fear the darkness. Welcome it’s embrace._

_Oh, hello Mr. Kaczmarek. My name is Dr. Warren Vidic._

“Desmond! Mavis, he’s out cold! Completely unresponsive!”

_Men dream. But dreams hold no value here._

_To transcend is to recognize that nothing is true and everything is permitted. That laws arise not from divinity, but reason._

_You would do better to hold your tongue than to chastise me, Accipiter._

_Adam?_

“Desmond isn’t here right now,” Altaïr panted as he swung back an unfamiliar fist and caught one of the creature’s throats squarely against his blade, spraying him in sickly purple blood. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
Animi Libertini (Latin) - Liberated Spirits.
> 
> Special thanks to DarthTofu for the pre-posting translation help; I can always turn to them for high-quality Latin assistance, and it is very greatly appreciated!
> 
> This chapter teases an upcoming arc that I want to call ‘The Elijah Arc.’ Before this arc, there will be the ‘Assassin Arc’ in which Desmond settles into his role in the Brotherhood and I focus a bit on the other Assassins as well; everyone coming to terms with their past. 
> 
> If you’re wondering about the very last line of this chapter, there are data files in Revelations that directly tie Clay and Desmond to Adam (yes, THAT Adam), in which Adam is referred to not as a human but as a Hybrid, a very specific choice on the part of Ubisoft I think especially when you consider Odyssey’s Fate of Atlantis DLC. I do not imply that Desmond is related to Alexios/Kassandra, in fact I do not believe he is, but the hybrid distinction carries meaning in this game universe all the same so it’s worth noting.


	36. Broken Wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little shorter than average. More of a filler transition chapter into the next phase of the story.

_ July - September 2018 _

The plane shook and shuddered as they headed back for their base but aside from the sounds of turbulence everything was entirely silent. Mavis was at the back of the plane with whichever currently was in control of Desmond’s body, the pair speaking quietly back and forth, but the rest of the Assassins were huddled near the cockpit of the plane. 

“What’s it like?” Mavis asked softly. Edward shifted on the seat, uncomfortable in Desmond’s body.

“I don’t like it,” he muttered, his accent shining through rather than Desmond’s. “I’d rather Desmond be the captain on this ship than me. Or anyone else, for that matter. It’s a very strange feeling and none of us much like it. We were all comfy existing in the non-corporeal. And we’d like to stay there.”

“I’m not sure I can manage that... it might be prudent for you and... Desmond’s other... personalities... to get used to being in control in case it happens again during the middle of a mission. Just to be on the safe side.” Edward winced at the cacophony of outrage from the rest of Desmond’s ancestors. Desmond himself was asleep somewhere in the nebulous void of the subconscious and Edward mentally asked Haytham to go and drag him out of bed by the ankles if necessary, something Haytham was only too happy to go and do. 

“Do we have to?” Edward whined. “It’s not pleasant, lass. It really isn’t.” The corners of Mavis’ lips twitched slightly as she suppressed a smile. 

“I don’t think you have any idea how strange it is to hear an Englishman speaking out of Desmond’s mouth,” she murmured, eyes glittering with humor. 

“I don’t think you have any idea how strange it is to _be _the Englishman speaking out of Desmond’s mouth,” he grumbled. “And I’m Welsh. Ya want the Scots to be separate from the Brits, return the courtesy.” 

“No need to get your knickers in a twist. You don’t _sound _Welsh is all.”

“Born in Wales, moved to Bristol at a very young age. I can still be proud of my blood,” Edward sniffed. Mavis rolled her eyes. 

“Whatever. You’re very annoying.”

“I try my best.”

“Would it be possible to speak with someone else? I need to know how much control you’ve all got over this.” Edward frowned slightly at the question, confusion emanating from the others inside Desmond’s head. Where he belonged and wanted to return to as quickly as possible. After a few moments he shrugged. 

“I have no idea.”

-/\\-

The pounding in Desmond’s head was not even touched in the slightest by the pain medication he’d downed that morning. It was the world’s worst hangover and he wasn’t the only one suffering. This, of course, made his ancestors moody and sulky. Every single one was quietly telling him off for getting his head bashed into a wall necessitating an impromptu management change, but he was quick to point out he wasn’t pleased by that development either. 

After thanking Altaïr for saving his - or was it their, since they apparently all had the ability to be the dominant person? - skin he retreated to the Animus room of the warehouse they were currently squatting in and just... chatted. Clay was a sympathetic and insightful person to speak with given his own experiences, and since he was partially in Desmond’s mind that meant that, if Desmond were wearing the neural connector, he could hear what the ancestors were saying too. 

He spent a lot of time in there over the next few weeks, really. Talking. Getting comfortable with the new dynamic. When he wasn’t in the Animus room he was in the obstacle course training Avery, who was more than willing to help him and the ancestors acclimate to the new ‘normal.’ She was patient with each and every one of them and they all adored her, sharing Desmond’s view on her being the little sister they all adopted. Ezio accidentally called her ‘Claudia’ a few times on accident, actually. Not that Avery much cared. She was flattered by the comparison. 

Despite this, Desmond wasn’t really around so much from July until September. Most Assassins had learned early on to ask who they were speaking to, something that really did show the dynamic of the group. There were no secrets among them, and instead of there being a drop in productivity everyone continued on as if everything were normal. The Council handled the majority of affairs and Desmond was able to chip in his two cents when needed. 

But with a compromised leader, they continued on without even a blip in the system. Everyone knew their roles and what was expected of them and they ran with it. 

Desmond had daily meetings with Mavis where she worked with each and every one of them in turn, one per day of the week with a day of rest where he could be comatose and no one would bother him if he wished. Her goal was to develop extensive personality profiles on everyone and then tease out the long-standing psychological issues plaguing them. 

To which every single one sarcastically said ‘good luck.’ 

-/\\-

“Charlie? You okay man?” Charlie looked up from staring out the window and sighed, rubbing at his face before looking at Desmond.

“Yeah. I’m good.”

“You’re a little more melancholy than usual,” Demond murmured, leaning against the wall with a concerned expression on his face. 

“This is my actual personality,” he explained, drawing in a shuddering breath. “When I got dumped into the Animus I took on most of Shahin’s personality traits. It’s rare that I actually, truly, feel like me at any given time anymore.” He made an effort to force a smile. “Still. Guess everyone likes the new me, so. Better than the old me, in fact. Totally an upgrade.”

“I would very much like to get to know who you are at your core, Charlie,” Desmond said softly. “And I’m sorry you have to deal with that.” 

“You think I should chat with Mavis and pick her brain on what’s going on?” He asked in a small, helpful voice. Desmond’s smirk was ironic.

“Well, as someone who _literally _sometimes becomes a completely different person and is making good progress on controlling that and/or eliminating the possibility I’d say she could definitely help you.” 

“...Thanks, man.” Charlie sniffed and wiped at his nose with the back of his hand as Desmond sat on the other side of the wide window sill. He let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Look at us. Most of us, in our first three decades still. All having a midlife crisis.”

“Well, you know, my motto is that since I don’t know which part of my life is the middle...” Desmond trailed off as Charlie started laughing, smirking in triumph. His gaze was riveted to the outdoors when he noticed something crumpled on the ground.

...And that was how he ended up nursing a baby Golden Eagle back to health. The poor thing imprinted on him immediately, following him around and necessitated care. It was too young to be released to the wild after it had been healed, so he was kind of stuck with it as well.

“What are you gonna call him?” Avery asked, gently stroking the still-tiny bird’s head with a finger. 

“...Kadar,” Desmond said after a few moments. Mentally, Altaïr sniffled and angrily denied crying to the amusement of everyone else. 

Things were... they weren’t okay, but they weren’t bad either. It was just a new normal. So what if Desmond sometimes woke up as a backseat observer in his own body? 

...Yes it was a big deal. But still. He was coping. And aside from that, things were going well. Charlie still hadn’t improved, but it was considered progress that Mavis was slowly getting down to the base of what might be wrong with him. Things were, if not improving, looking up for everyone it seemed.

-/\\-

_“The Sage got away with the Koh-I-Noor,” Bishop muttered unhappily. Shaun tried to think of a better word than ‘sulking,’ but that was what she was doing. She’d been put in charge of the Initiates Program back in 2014 to recruit new people to the cause and find new PoEs, and counting the Frye twins’ Shroud of Eden from London it was the second one she’d managed to locate that someone else managed to take before they did. _

_“Did you get a good description from the Assassin who was there?” Bill asked, not bothering to turn his chair away from his computer as he read a boring email. _

_“...Yes. His name was- uh, is- Elijah. He...” _

_The hesitation caught Bill’s attention and he finally looked up at her over his glasses. _

_“He’s... what, Bishop?” He pressed. Bishop bit her lip._

_“Abstergo files match his paternal DNA to Subject 17, sir.” _

_“He’s my grandson,” Bill whispered numbly. Bishop nodded and, sensing the mood in the room, took her leave. _

_“Desmond never said anything about a kid,” Rebecca said slowly. Her eyes met Shaun’s across the room. “He would have said, wouldn’t he? Right? He would have.” _

_“I don’t think he knew, Becs,” Shaun soothed, swallowing hard as he walked over and let her crawl into his arms to take comfort from his jumper. He dropped his chin onto the top of her head; he’d deny it to his dying day, but he needed some comfort too. _

_“That just makes it worse,” Rebecca murmured, drawing away after the brief contact and sitting down in a nearby armchair. “If he never knew.”_

_“He would have combed the Earth looking for that kid when he went missing,” Shaun sighed, taking his glasses of and rubbing at the bridge of his nose. _

_“Yes,” Bill said slowly. “He would have.”_

_“And you will too I’m guessing.” Bill blinked. _

_“He’s a Sage.” _

_“He’s your _grandson_,” Rebecca snapped irritably. Bill nodded. _

_“By blood.” _

_“No, by _obligation_,” Shaun growled. “If you won’t look for him, Rebecca and I will.”_

_“Yeah, that kid needs a cool aunt and awkward geeky uncle.”_

_“Ye- wait, no. Rebecca-“ _

_“Well, a cool aunt anyway.” _

_“I can’t afford to be compromised, Hastings,” Bill sighed, leaning back in his seat._

_“And what about all those regrets you keep, eh? Things you wish you’d said or done. Do those mean nothing now that you’ve got a chance to redeem yourself?”_

_“Is that why _you _want to find him?” Shaun’s jaw tightened as he stalked out of the office with a livid Rebecca on his heels. _

_“I want to find him because his father was my _friend_,” he growled through gritted teeth. _

_Bill watched them go with an indifferent air before slumping into his seat with a shuddering sigh, dropping his head into his hands and scrubbing vigorously. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kadar (Masc. Arabic, strong/powerful/etc) after Malik’s little brother.
> 
> Just in case you thought ‘wow, everyone sure is a mess right now, but at least Charlie seems to be doing well...’ 
> 
> ...Yeah. Everyone’s got problems, and I realized I hadn’t touched too much on Charlie’s yet. If some of you were wondering why there seemed to be an inconsistent personality profile for him, that wasn’t just because I forgot how to write him. There was a reason, and you’re seeing it now.
> 
> As for Bill. This is not a Bill-friendly author. He is not a nice man. However, this does not mean that I will write him as if he were less than human. He pretends he isn’t affected by things when he is, letting that stress out when alone only. 


	37. Anno Domini

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definition of Anno Domini: (Latin, “In the year of [our] Lord”). 
> 
> General housekeeping notes. I have spent a lot of time reflecting on where I want this story to go and thus I cleaned up some clutter and removed several (and by that I mean a LOT) of the upcoming chapters that I find do not have any true relevance to the story, so they have been cut. Since that was a tentative chapter listing to begin with I’m just kinda... eh. On the whole thing.
> 
> You may have noticed that I’ve also updated the story’s summary. I felt the new version was a better indication of what people would be getting. 
> 
> As the third/last part of ‘Fate of Atlantis,’ the final DLC update for ‘Assassin’s Creed Odyssey,’ was released in July of 2019, this means that my story is officially up to date with all released content from the game series as of July of 2020. 

_ March - August 2019 _

_Three, two, one. Go._

Desmond and Cal tore through the trees like wraiths, twigs and branches of the upper Maine spring dripping with melted snow and depositing heavy clumps as they bent under their weight with each landing on the boughs. Their target remained unaware ahead of them, glowing brightly with EV and following a trail on the ground. 

Cal blended well with the wintry camo he was sporting, bundled up well against the elements. Desmond was, in comparison, decked out in something far more akin to his Kanien’kehá:ka heritage and moved soundlessly through the foliage in soft-soled shoes.

They’d gone out at the start of March, just the pair of them, to live in the woods as Desmond drilled Cal on his knowledge of the Brotherhood. He was walk, talk, and breathe the Creed and its history, and if he showed proper respect for their ways toward even the smallest of prey he would be deemed ready to go on his solo ceremonial mission on a real, human Templar target (watched of course, by an unseen eye of both his mentor and the Mentor. 

Maine had an abundance of abandoned warehouses for them to take their pick of, and they’d been living in the well-sheltered shell of an old stove factory. Some of the product was still around, and it was easy for them to position the things in such a way that wood-fire smoke looked like rustic hunting cabins over the trees. Despite the cold season, they’d been quite warm and well-protected. 

As for Desmond and Cal, March was not a kind season to Maine. Temperatures remained in the thirties and heightened by the end of the month to the forties, and this particular spring was a bitter one. The first week they’d been hit by snow, the second frost. Only in the fourth week were they finally beginning to thaw. Cal had been all but frozen solid for the majority of that time, Desmond mildly put out. Blood thickness and general ability to deal with heat and cold aside, this was Connor’s element and Altaïr had experienced his own fair share of harsh winters in the mountains. Throw in Haytham’s jaunt into the Arctic Circle and he had more than enough to compare and learn from to keep warm in a myriad of interesting ways.

They subsisted on what they gathered and hunted using knives, snares, bait, and bows only to keep everything as minimal as possible. Most of their equipment had been fashioned from things they’d found when they got there, the point being that showing ingenuity and adaptivity were skills even more highly sought after than good swordsmanship. Over the course of the trip Cal’s demeanor toward Desmond had thawed with the weather, and the pair had reached a sort of mutual understanding of one another in a way that only fighting for base survival could ever do. 

A branch snapped and the deer’s head came up sharply. The pair halted, swaying with their perches high in the trees, and warily the creature advanced forward. Cal shifted forward, testing his weight, and then dropped at the perfect moment. The kill was clean and quick, as painless as possible, and he took his time making sure it was properly dead instead of generally assuming. Desmond dropped noiselessly into the soil beside him and he flinched slightly, eyeing the man warily. 

“I still can’t come to terms with how terrifying that little trick of yours is,” he muttered, respectfully closing the eyes of his kill. 

“One of the few benefits of soft-soled shoes. I prefer climbing boots for most everything else, but there are times when these work best,” Desmond murmured in reply, crouching back on his heels and observing Cal’s work. “Why do we make the death as painless and swift as possible?” He asked after a few moments. Cal stilled in his task and thought it through before replying.

“Because all creatures, whether animal or human, whether innocent or the right hand of the Devil, deserve the honor of a respectful kill,” he finally replied, glancing over. 

“And why do we look into their eyes as they die?”

“To show that we’re committed to giving them that last honor. For the same reason we ask that they Rest In Peace and be troubled no longer by the material world.”

“And you’ve properly understood one of the most vital aspects of our Creed,” Desmond murmured, standing and offering Cal an assist to do the same. “You’re ready.”

His target was a tawdry little weasel of a money launderer in a nearby town. The man did work for several dirty groups and was a sort of one of several bridges between Abstergo and the proper criminal Underworld. The challenge to the mark was that he’d had the FBI after him for about a year and had holed up in a tiny apartment, in the middle of the busiest part of the small city, with several heavily armed and hired guards. Cal’s solution to the predicament was quite simple. 

He’d taken the time to patiently record the man’s movements over a period of two weeks to establish a pattern, every bit the perfect hunter stalking his prey. Each Thursday, Mr. Simmons took a trip to the local gym. He took only his gym clothes, a water bottle, and a bag of trail mix with him. After disabling the alley security camera and sneaking in the back door, Cal approached the locker room during Simmons’ end shower and punched a quick hole into his carotid, turning the water off and placing a convenient ‘Out of Order’ sign on the stall before locking it from the inside and slipping out over the top. 

By the time anyone noticed something was wrong, it was an entire day later and he was long gone.

It was a very quietly-satisfied Cal that dropped the newspaper on Desmond’s makeshift milk crate desk the next morning at the Order’s hideout, interrupting a small argument he’d been having with Mavis. 

The ceremony was a solemn one, the profound multitude of meaning behind their Order’s first Apprentice attaining the rank of Assassin through hard and thorough study not something that was lost on anyone. For the first time, they were a properly-functioning organization with an Induction process that proved successful. It made them feel like real Assassins.

-/\\-

Early June brought the Order the location of a Precursor Artifact - a power cell, but they couldn’t afford to be picky and those things could run their generators for years - and Desmond sent Charlie to retrieve it. He had a more personal project to work on, and that was accompanying Avery to her grandfather’s new house. She and Charity had spent the better part of an entire year trying to track her family down and had come up empty save for him. Despite living off the grid in an obscure hunting cabin out in North Dakota, he still cashed his military checks for services rendered in Vietnam. 

“So, this is even colder than what you’re used to,” Avery commented as they walked the long, winding dirt drive toward the house. “Being from South Dakota and all.”

“It’s just farther north, Avery,” Desmond replied patiently. She’d been making odd comments of that variety for ages now, and it would have annoyed him had he not learned early on in their relationship that she made small talk to cover her anxiety and put on a brave face. She’d grown in more ways than one over the past three years, and feminine curves were prominent on her seventeen-year old teenage body. She carried herself with more confidence, and with her eighteenth birthday - and thus the impending time of her achieving full Master rank Assassin as was the condition established so long ago - coming up she’d settled into a patient acceptance of her current position.

It most likely had something to do with the recognition that, despite being in an Animus, she had learned much about life in general from Desmond as his Apprentice. And speaking of growth, there came a certain peace with the age of thirty that didn’t exist in one’s twenties. At thirty-two, he’d had three years to become accustomed to his rank as Mentor and all of the responsibilities that came with it. He’d given up trying to find the balance, realizing he didn’t need to, and the members of his Order had reached a point where they understood his position on the matter and accepted it rather than try to change his views on the matter. 

Three years. Everyone had reached a sort of stable peace from the longevity, the established pattern, the known way of things. And now, Avery’s world had been turned completely upside down. 

She was being far too stoic about it for Desmond to be entirely comfortable with the situation, and like an over-protective brother he had to mentally tell himself not to shield her. Not from this. Family was... well. She needed closure, no matter what type of closure it would be. And if it were bad, then he’d catch her when she fell apart afterwards and make sure she understood that she still had a home. 

They’d taken a car to get there, driving mostly across Canada as it was the most direct rout from Maine to North Dakota, and Avery had seemed to need the walk for the remainder of the trip to ease through some of her cooped-up nerves. It was a nice spot, nice and secluded, and Desmond took the opportunity to bask in the peace and quiet. Avery’s mindless ramblings beside him were answered with stock replies that she didn’t bother to acknowledge, and he idly watched Kadar soar above the trees. 

The tiny eagle had grown into a handsome bird of prey, loyal to him to a fault and entirely too mindful of every rat and mouse - or occasional raccoon - they came across in the abandoned buildings they made their home. It was good for him to stretch his wings. And that car ride...

Desmond silently vowed never to keep the bird up front with the rest of them ever again after the latest incident. No. The cage was going with the rest of the luggage if at all possible. 

As the cabin came into view Avery’s step grew slower and slower even as her chatter increased. Eventually, she came to a complete stop and went entirely silent.

“What if he doesn’t recognize me?” She whispered after after a long few minutes. “It’s been six years...”

“He’s your grandfather,” Desmond soothed. “He’d recognize you anywhere.” 

“Could-“ she broke off, swallowed, and tried again. “Could you go up there first? If- if we got the address wrong, if he doesn’t want to see me- I just-“

“Stay here then,” he said kindly, giving her stiff, frozen form a side-hug and walking forward. His knuckles had barely rapped the door when it was flung open, a shotgun aimed directly in his face in such a way his eyes crossed to see down both barrels, and the thoughts of his ancestors scattered as centuries worth of memories flashed before his eyes. 

Instinct and reflex caused him to smoothly dodge to the side and grab the shotgun in a strong, defensive grip. The barrels were held against his chest and pinned, unable to shoot him. 

“Whoa, whoa whoa!” He exclaimed, pulling his hood all the way down. “Easy! I just wanted to ask you a question!”

“If it’s car trouble you’ve got, my drive’s two miles long for a reason,” the man snarled. Desmond blinked as he took in the man’s appearance. He had mostly-black hair - no mean feat for a man his age - streaked with white and gray and he sported stubble but no facial hair. Steely green eyes glared at him over the top of a pair of reading glasses and his entire lean frame heavily-suggested a formidable opponent.

_No such thing as an ex-Marine..._

“Are you Archibald Jameson?” Desmond asked tentatively, going with a meek and submissive approach. The man was clearly paranoid and he didn’t fancy irking him further in case he pulled out a knife. Having to deck Avery’s grandfather wasn’t on his agenda. 

“Archie,” the man growled. “Why?”

“Your granddaughter was Avery Prentice?” Archie’s face drained of color and then almost immediately became inflamed as shock was overridden by anger. And yes, he did have a knife that he pulled from his belt. 

_Careful Des, _Edward cautioned. _I’ve seen jaguars friendlier than him. _

_No kidding_, Desmond thought dryly. Aloud he said, “look, I don’t want any trouble. It’s just, we’ve been trying to find you for a long time.”

“Who’s ‘we?’” 

“Gampa?” Avery asked softly, edging out from the side of the house. She’d farted forward on reflex as an Assassin and taken up an ambush position when she’d seen Desmond being threatened, and now she approached like the kid she still was. Archie’s entire demeanor changed abruptly from hostile to shocked, and Desmond grunted slightly as he awkwardly scrambled to catch the gun before it entirely slipped from the man’s fingers. 

“Avery?” He whispered, disbelief entirely taking over his form as he tentatively took a single step forward and froze. “Is that really... you?”

“Yeah,” she said quietly, fidgeting in place with her fingers picking at the hem of her hoodie. “It’s... been a while.” 

“Oh-“ and suddenly Desmond was jumping out of the way as Archie rushed to embrace his granddaughter, standing uncomfortably on the porch holding a confiscated shotgun and not knowing quite what to do because both of them were crying and it was a moment that excluded him. 

“Uh, I’m- I’m just-“ he pointed inside, gesturing to the gun, and then gave up and scooted past them to drop the weapon (now unprimed) in what seemed to be it’s spot in a lean against the fireplace mantle. “Um. Yeah.” 

_Well this is awkward_, Haytham pointed out. Desmond got the mental image of him leaning against something and filing his nails and snorted softly, biting his lip to hold back a laugh at Edward’s response.

_Right, because yours was all sunshine and daffodils. _

_Well, not _everyone _can have as nice a one as yours and Jenny’s._

_I was comatose for mine, _Desmond contributed quietly. His attention was diverted from Altaïr’s sour _At least you _had _one _as Avery and her grandfather joined him inside, and he shifted nervously on his feet as Archie approached him. 

“Hey, hey now look, I was just the driver- _no! _Not the van driver, the uh, the one that brought her here, I didn’t, I um- see, I was in a coma from 2012 to 2016, and before that I was actually _in _a van, um, going across Italy- oof!” 

_He seems very friendly Uccelino_, Ezio commented brightly as Archie enveloped him in a painful bear hug. 

_Yeah, especially after he held a shotgun to my face._

_He probably thought you were a solicitor, _Haytham snickered.

_...I hate that you know what that means. _

_It would be my response if one of them knocked on my door, _Connor sighed. _The shotgun, I mean. _

“Okay, yeah, I get it thanks,” Desmond said aloud just as much as he meant it internally. “Not that I’m not enjoying this lovefest, but why don’t you want to shoot me anymore?”

“You’re not a solicitor,” Archie said gruffly.

_I hate you all._

_No you don’t._

“And you brought my little girl back to me,” he continued, wiping the tears from his eyes and walking toward the kitchen. “Coffee?” 

“Only if you’ve got whiskey to give it some flavor,” Desmond sighed as he followed grandfather and granddaughter into the cozy space. 

“Boy, you read my mind.”

“Can I-“

“No,” Desmond snapped, ignoring Archie’s quirked eyebrow as he focused on Avery’s pout. “You might almost be a legal adult, but you’re still too young to drink.”

“You worked at a _bar _when you were sixteen,” she countered. “Just _try _and tell me you didn’t sample the merchandise.” 

“Only thing the owner let me near was the non-alcoholic stuff, on pain of losing my job and getting blacklisted in the profession. He put the fear of God in me and I never tried it. Well. At least at his establishment...”

“And at eighteen?” 

“The answer is still gonna be no, so stop fishing.”

“I’m sorry, aside from Avery saying you were the one to rescue her, I ah, I don’t know who you are?”

“Avery saved herself,” Desmond huffed, leaning against the kitchen counter with a soft but proud smile. “We _all _saved ourselves. And I’m Desmond.”

“Who saved themselves, and from where?”

“Abstergo.” Archie’s jaw went slack and he sighed, scrubbing at his face. “This is gonna be a long evening...” 

-/\\-

“Hey, you know what would be cool?” Charlie asked, repetitively throwing a tennis ball against the wall. 

“What?” Devon asked, not looking up from writing his _Star Trek _fan fiction. 

“Like, if we had special marks to show we were part of the Brotherhood. Like, cutting off the finger or branding it or whatever.” The typing paused, replaced by a raised eyebrow.

“Dude. How high are you?”

“5’8” why?”

“No, that, that... whatever.” Devon sighed, saving his work and closing his laptop. “Are you nuts? Cutting off our fingers??”

“Not _actually _cutting off our fingers. _Geez_. What do you take me for, a _psychopath!?_”

“I’m taking you for something.”

“_Tattoos, _Devon. You used to be a tattoo artist before you found your calling in grand theft auto, right? Is it possible to make invisible tattoos? You know, invisible ink?”

“...Yeah, but why would-“ Devon cut himself off as his eyes widened in dawning realization and he clapped a smiling Charlie in the shoulder. “Dude. You’re a genius. _Eagle Vision_. Invisible tattoo on the ring finger, the symbol of our Creed. But only we could see it, because we know to look for it.”

“Think it could be done?”

“Oh. Yeah. This will keep me occupied for _days_. The _challenge. _The _intrigue._ I love it.” 

“Well, have fun. I have an artifact to collect.” 

In retrospect, that had been a very good start to Charlie’s day. But by the time he’d arrived at the precursor site, things had... gone from good to bad to worse to absolutely terrible. 

He’d arrived at the spot to find a flotilla of Abstergo company cars and trucks already there, his old job well on their way to mapping the place and cutting him off entirely from the entrance. Luckily, he knew his way around such operations and decided to adhere with dedication to the concept of ‘hide in plain sight.’ 

There were always extra hazmat suits in case one was defective, so he crept over to the truck and slipped one on. It had the benefit of covering his entire person - though this unfortunately meant that he had no access to any of his weapons - and shielded his face. He knew how to act like he knew what he was doing, and he passed right by security without any fuss. 

The precursor site itself looked like a data cache - something he had worked on before - so he knew in general where the power source would be. He made small talk with the other people and ambled through rather than stalked with purpose, and then he was bagging and tagging the power source and correctly labeling it and in general looking like he’d been told to do that.

And that’s when the trouble had started.

Apparently, the mainstream Assassins and Vox Populi - not to mention Erudito - weren’t the only organizations to hold a grudge against Abstergo. Hostile Louisiana militia was _not _something Charlie had expected to see, however, and just like that he was locked inside the precursor site with the rest of them while the armed security fought tooth and nail. Troublesome. Problematic. 

Abstergo were losing, and at the moment he would be easily mistaken for one of them. 

To avoid having the power cell taken away from him, Charlie headed deeper into the ruins and unzipped his suit to put the thing in his backpack. The suits were bulky anyways, so no one would be the wiser, and in general the teams tended to pack hiking equipment on their persons under their suits in case of an emergency. He also dialed out a quick ‘911’ to the Brotherhood, knowing that Desmond would show up himself with several others in tow, and all he had to do was wait.

Feeling more at ease with the object of his mission hidden away, he edged back to the fringe of the crowd of worried techs and listened with mounting panic to the gunfire outside. 

After a few more minutes, things went eerily silent.

“What are we going to do!?” Someone whispered harshly. 

“Stay calm and not panic,” came a harried reply. Several other whispers all broke out, people talking over one another in an odd state of controlled panic.

“Hey, does anyone do like... karate over the weekends? Maybe was a Marine at some point?”

“Oh, like _one person _could make a huge difference, _Todd_.”

“You never know, _Margo_. Maybe they _could_. Ever seen _Die Hard? _Huh? _Olympus Has Fallen? _No? Oh, that’s right. You can’t even watch _Bambi _without hiding behind the couch.”

“Where are the lights in this place?” Charlie’s blood ran cold as the voice of Jack filtered over to him. Jacqueline. His old teammate and, once upon a time, his unrequited crush. He strained to see her through the crowd and his breath caught when he saw her with Terry and Li. Lilia. The woman who he’d trusted and had handed him to Abstergo on a silver platter. 

“Maybe it’s that Vox Populi group,” someone suggested tentatively. Terry scoffed at that, arms crossing over her chest with a scowl.

“They’re more likely to come to our rescue than let those trigger-happy morons shoot up the place,” she pointed out. “Don’t you pay attention to the news? They haven’t killed a single person.”

“That we _know of,_” someone muttered. 

“Whatever. Look, we might as well finish what we started okay? Do our jobs. The door is locked, and... and maybe we can’t get out, but we can still figure this place out,” Li reasoned. “And if we’re lucky, maybe we find out how to get out of here. So, come on. Let’s get moving, people!” 

Everyone broke off into varied sizes of groups and Charlie shifted nervously from foot to foot, uncomfortable with getting too close with anyone lest they realize he wasn’t one of them. 

...That was the least of his worries, because Li decided to add him to her group. 

_Just like old times..._

Terry and Jack had him do quite a bit of the heavy lifting and he was proud to say that he was much more muscular than the last time they’d requested that. No embarrassing huffing and puffing over a simple runestone, no sir. 

...Maybe a little. 

“You seem familiar,” Terry said conversationally while they worked. Charlie had purposefully chosen a tinted visor to shield his face, but he was having a hard time disguising his voice from his old coworkers and was desperate for Desmond to show up with the cavalry. 

“You’ve probably seen me around,” he muttered, for the first time grateful that he could have a perfect Persian accent due to Shahin that drastically changed the way his voice sounded. Shahin’s vocal inflections tended to run higher than Charlie’s as well.

“You new?”

“...Fairly. Did some work, Uh... transferred. Then transferred back.”

“Interesting.” Terry smiled and threw a data stick at him, blanching when she realized he’d had his back turned. She gasped when he unthinkingly caught it with a single hand without turning to see where it was and he winced. The awkward moment was abruptly curtailed when there was a loud bang, the sound of an explosion, and stone dust from the ceiling rained down on their heads.

“That’s... not good,” Jack breathed. 

“No. But- but what are they even doing!?” Li grumbled, crossing and uncrossing her arms across her chest in discomfort. Charlie blinked, then sighed and ran his hand over his visor in defeat. 

“I’ll find out,” he muttered. “But you’d better stay with me.”

“Because we’re _girls?_” Jack asked sardonically. She inhaled sharply as Charlie’s head swung around and their visors touched for a nanosecond. 

“I have far too much respect for women to even deign to answer that, Jacks.” Her eyes widened as they met his and her face drained of color, a gloved hand shakily coming up to grasp his head covering and securing the material loosely between her fingers. 

“Charlie??” She whispered faintly, disbelievingly. 

“Hey.” There was a beat of frozen silence before she was flinging her arms around his person and, like a boa constrictor, squeezing the life out of him. The sudden and unexpected contact caused something to shift and click firmly in place in his mind, and a sense of peace settled over his soul. He slumped against her and clung just as tightly as they sank to the ground with their foreheads touching. Shahin would always be a part of him, but he’d found the shattered pieces of himself and glued them back together with his ancestor the binding adhesive running through all that he was and completing rather than dominating him. 

With a shaky breath, Charlie pulled his visor off and turned to take in Terry and Li’s reactions. He heard rather than saw Jack removing her suit as well behind him as he went through the cumbersome process of freeing himself from the monkey pajamas. 

Terry’s hands had come up to cover her mouth and hit her visor instead, tears filling her eyes on seeing him. Li stood stiffly, unease and definite fear creeping up to solidify in a mask over her features. 

“What did you think happened to me?” He asked coolly, eyes never leaving Li as he spoke. Terry was practically tripping over herself to get out of her hazmat suit, but Jack had come up to lean against his shoulder. 

“You had a mental breakdown at the temple, so Li sent you to Abstergo’s psych facility in Madrid,” Jack replied evenly. There was a soft, somewhat suspicious frown on her face as she said it, and she leaned her weight onto one leg more than the other as she looked her team leader up and down. “When the patients broke out and killed all those guards...”

“We were defending ourselves,” Charlie sighed, shoulders slumping. We had a few sticks and some rusty crossbows. They had guns and used them. Abstergo might have lost 10% of its security, but we lost at least 60% of our people.”

“You killed someone?” Terry gasped, frozen with one leg and a boot half raised to her fingers. Charlie growled and stalked to the far side of the room, flinching slightly as more stone dust settled int his hair from a second explosion. 

“You know the Animus program. And you heard of Assassins.”

“From _Liberation _and that _Pirates _installment that never got off the ground, yeah,” Jack murmured thoughtfully. Her eyes widened as she looked quickly at his wrists and she swallowed. “You’re an Assassin? But- But I thought they died out, ages-“

“Ago, yeah,” Charlie summarized flatly. “Bottom line is that Abstergo are controlled by Templars, _like Li over there_. She saw I had Eagle Vision and sent me to a black ops Animus project.” He couldn’t look at them and see their expressions, so he raised his eyes to the ceiling. “It doesn’t- well, _didn’t_\- have any safety protocols. They milked our DNA for ancestral memory and then, when we’d been squeezed dry, there was nothing left of us but husks of who we once were.”

“You’re looking pretty lively for a _husk_,” Li retorted coolly. She flinched as Charlie spun and glared at her, pointing at his head. 

“I’ve got so many undiagnosed mental illnesses it’s a wonder I can still function properly!” He snapped, beginning to pace. “They made me relive the life of my Persian ancestor Shahin. He’s pretty laid-back compared to me, and for _years _his was the dominant personality that I presented. I didn’t feel like _me. _I felt like I was _suffocating in my own body_. Do you have any idea what that’s like? And you did that to me, Li! We were _friends! _We worked well together? And you betrayed that, knowing what would happen to me, for what- _The Cause!?_”

“Your Brotherhood has their Creed, _Assassin_, and my Brotherhood has theirs,” Li hissed through clenched teeth. 

“Oh my God it’s all real,” Jack breathed, exchanging an equally-dumbfounded and terrified glance with Terry. He jaw hung slightly slack as she turned to Li. “And you... why, how...?”

“It’s passed down through the bloodline,” Charlie muttered, angrily kicking a piece of rubble and watching it skip over the smooth grey floor. “On both sides. Of course, you have to _know _whose blood you carry to be a part of either Order. And I didn’t. The secret of the Creed died with Shahin in my family. His wife never knew, and his infant daughter never learned. So you made my life a living Hell over a centuries-old _broken connection_.” 

A third explosion went off and the rock around them trembled. There was a loud echoing crash as the doors caved in; disconnected from any shielding energy, they collapsed. Low-level data caches like the one they were in didn’t really have a lock to begin with.

Charlie puffed out a measured and calculated breath as he faced the pathway to the entrance and partially turned to look over his shoulder at his old team.

“I have nothing more to say to you, Li. But Terry, Jack? Come with me. And I promise I’ll explain everything as best I can.”

“Charlie? What are you going to do?” Terry asked softly. He turned fully to face the way back to the entrance again and let his hidden blades fall from their housings.

“I’m going to protect this research project from a bunch of crazies. ...gun-toting crazies. ...with a pair of knives.

“...Yeah.” 

~§§~

_“It should be just up ahead,” Shaun muttered in annoyance, talking over the van’s GPS as it chimed in it’s irritatingly-chipper voice._

_“Relax Shaun,” Rebecca laughed, turning the vehicle down a service road. “We’re almost... there...” _

_The van cruised to a halt as they took in the sight of a group of Louisiana militia letting off round after round against Abstergo guards, who fell like dominos._

_“...Oh.”_

_“Let’s just wait and see what happens,” Shaun suggested nervously. Rebecca simply nodded. _

_They sat for what felt like hours but was, in reality, only about forty-five minutes before the doors of the precursor site caved to the third over,y-excessive batch of C-4. The smoke and dust cleared, and... _

_A lone Assassin burst through the haze blades drawn and drove them deep into two militiamen’s shoulders, completing the gliding leap with a smooth crouch and roll land before diving for cover behind a boulder as the gunfire started up in earnest once more._

_“What in-“_

_They both yelped as the top of the van partially caved in from a sudden weight dropping on top of it and gasped as a pair of hiking boots pushed off the windshield, a second Assassin entering the fray with a third - and definitely smaller - one in tow. The young woman joined the first Assassin in his cover, but the second one..._

_“I didn’t know Bill was sending a field team for this one,” Rebecca huffed, the air escaping her in one long postponed exhale as they watched him cut through the people like a scythe through a wheat field. A grim reaper analogy was not far behind. “He’s got to be master rank, don’t you think?” _

_Silence._

_“Shaun?”_

_“Rebecca... look at the way he moves...” she frowned at him before looking, _really looking_, and she bit her lip until it bled to take her mind off her gathering tears. _

_“It’s not him, Shaun. It can’t be. We saw him die ourselves.”_

_“But...”_

_“Stop. _Please_. Just... stop.” _

_Two feminine forms raced out of temple, and then the group were running past their van in up the service road leaving the second Assassin on his own to bring up the rear. He moved with poise and precision, a slight inflection of breakdance and acrobatics coloring his every step, and as he passed so close to the van that Rebecca and Shaun could see the whites of his eyes their gazes met and he skidded to an abrupt halt, stumbling. Golden eyes stared back at them seeming equally shocked before he jerked roughly to the side to avoid a bullet to the head, a torn look in them as he glanced between the service road and them, before an audible shout of frustration emanated from his person and he ran._

_Shaun and Rebecca had enough sense to duck out of sight as the entire Louisiana militia force followed after him, guns blazing. He’d saved their lives by running and not allowing his enemy to fixate on the van, a fact that was not lost on either of them._

_“Becs.”_

_“I... I need to think on it, Shaun. If I let myself get my hopes up and we’re wrong...”_

~§§~

Desmond dove into the passenger seat of the now-severely cramped car and slammed the door with a frustrated sigh as Avery floored it and they tore out of the area. Charlie and his two friends were practically spooning one another trying awkwardly to make room in the three-seat back designed for two adults and a child, and he groaned when Archie sat up from his nap in the cargo hold of the SUV and popped the liftgate window to level his shotgun and fire. 

“Uh, Des, not that I’m not complaining for the rescue, but who the Hell is this?” Charlie asked, pointing at the crotchety tag-along. Desmond turned in his seat and pointedly let his gaze travel slowly over the two unknown women before settling on making eye contact with Charlie, who squirmed in discomfort at the undivided attention. 

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“Ohana,” Avery muttered as she peeled off the dirt track and onto the main road at top speed. Several people groaned.

“This is gonna be a long trip back to base...” Desmond sighed softly at the comment from Charlie and rested his head against the headrest, closing his eyes.

_Rebecca. Shaun. _

_You were so close mate, _Edward murmured sympathetically. _Condolences._

_You’ll see them again someday, _Ezio added encouragingly.

_But when?_

No one had an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. If anyone knows the proper way to write 
> 
> “Judge. Jury. Executioner.” 
> 
> In Latin and feels like sharing that with me I would be very happy.
> 
> There are two things I wanted you to notice. The first is Charlie's abrupt personality shift from how he acted around Devon to how he acted with his team. The first personality is Shahin's being dominant, the second being Charlie's. it's been subtle before, the quiet serious moments clashing with the more easy-going ones, but I'm being overt with it here because it's easier to see the discrepancy when he has a tie to his old life in the form of old friends. 
> 
> The second is Shaun and Rebecca's reactions to seeing someone who might possibly be Desmond. I like to think, based on footage we have of them from the modern storyline in "Syndicate," that Rebecca doesn't let herself hope and just forges ahead, using her job as a distraction. When something made her uncomfortable in "ACIII" she would end the conversation and get back to work to cope. Shaun, on the other hand, was seen to deeply regret his attitude toward Desmond in "Syndicate" and he coped with everything going on by spouting theories and conjectures in conversation in "ACIII." Prior to "Revelations" in both "ACII" and "Brotherhood," Shaun, most of the time, is a hard worker who values his job and deals in facts. What he can read and see and hear. Rebecca is, in contrast, more willing to have fun and go out on a limb, spouting theories as to what happened to the PoEs and to Ezio or the Italian Brotherhood. They switch roles, which is why they work so well together. There is always an anchor and someone to lighten the mood regardless of whether they're acting normally or functioning with their respective coping mechanisms.
> 
> So, in "Vox Populi," you see the same pattern unfold. Only this time, Shaun latches on to the theory/conjecture that Desmond might still be alive while Rebecca isn't ready to go that far yet. Because he wants it to be true, and she doesn't want to get her heart broken if it isn't.


	38. Coming Home

_ October to November of 2019 _

Desmond was in the middle of a council meeting when Avery and Charity came running in, disrupting a small session on reaources that had only required a half assembly. 

“Guess what?” Charity asked, leaning over the table and bracing her hands against it.

“You hacked _another _database that you shouldn’t have been able to get into?” Devon asked sarcastically. 

“Ha ha. But yes.” She slid into her chair and bounced in it with excitement, Avery shifting impatiently from foot to foot behind her. “We need a new location by the end of the month, right?”

“...Right,” Desmond answered slowly, exchanging a glance with Moussa. They had been having great trouble finding a suitable location that wouldn’t be too heavily steeped in snow. Their last winter lodgings hadn’t been heated, and many people had become ill. They hadn’t lost anyone, but that was by pure luck and the skill of the medical team more than anything else. This year they wanted to be more cautious. 

“Well, the Templars were forced to leave Syria because the region is so unstable.”

“And it wasn’t unstable before?” Mavis asked, raising an eyebrow. Charity smirked. 

“It was, but they were contributing to it. Their greatest ally in the region just turned on them.” 

“Probably had something to do with Abstergo double-crossing them,” Avery snorted, crossing her arms. “And I thought these people were smart. Be loyal to your allies, and they take care of you. Stab them in the back, they return the favor once they get out of the hospital.” 

“The departure leaves a power vacuum in the area, and it’s well-fortified by the mountains. Remote,” Charity said quickly, leaning forward. There was a glint in her eye that had Desmond’s heart rate speed up with anticipation. Dare he even begin to consider...

“Masyaf,” he whispered, slumping in his seat as the two young women nodded excitedly. The table erupted into astounded debate. 

_Home, _Altaïr whispered, nostalgic longing seeping into Desmond’s very bones by osmosis. 

_And the heart of Assassin history, _Ezio added reverently. 

“They set up their base in the old fortress?” Moussa asked sharply. 

“And they abandoned it,” Avery added. “But, it’s all modernized. The town of Masyaf itself was pretty prosperous in the late 15th century, but the Templars scared off any new settlers when they went looking for the Vault. It’s more a small farming community with really, _really _good trade from the nearby larger cities, and anything we can’t get in Masyaf we can drive an hour to get at one of the larger hubs. Easy to defend, state of the art internal isolated power supply for the Keep.”

“And a new group moving in after Abstergo moved out wouldn’t seem too out of place,” Mavis mused, thoughtful. She shot a look at Desmond. “If we’re careful, they don’t even have to know that it’s Vox Populi. They could just assume a local warlord took over or something. It’s not like Abstergo bothers researching things that no longer interest them. They’re arrogant that way, assuming they’re untouchable. If we play our cards right, we could have a permanent home.”

“But the Assassins scattered for good reason,” Sandra argued. “They needed to be one with the people and walk unseen among them.”

“Once,” Desmond conceded quietly. The chatter around the table all but dissolved as they looked to him expectantly. “But that was when we were strong. When anonymity and seclusion were our greatest strengths. But now? Abstergo is too powerful. I saw it with the main Assassin Brotherhood. Our greatest strength is now our greatest weakness. When Abstergo locate a team in the field they isolate them, cut them off from receiving help. And then they kill them. The four months I worked with them we were constantly on the run, living underground in caves holding our breath with each satellite that passed overhead. 

“I think... I think it’s time we went home. Consolidated our power, make a strong base for ourselves. One Abstergo can’t touch even if they locate it. Recruit others to the cause.”

“You mean, attack other Abstergo ‘psychiatric facilities,’ Jack summarized. “Infiltrate. Find others subjected to an Animus program, and free them. Increase our numbers with our own kind and free them in the process.”

“And return to Masyaf. Return _home_.” Desmond stood, pacing slowly, feeling the need to release the antsy energy Altaïr was projecting in his mind. “I remember the region. The natural landscape. It’s bitter cold in the winter and blazing hot in the summer. The Keep was built to shelter the worst of the freezing winds and shade from the blistering heat. It was built to last, to endure. Approaching it stealthily is all but impossible in large numbers, and when Altaïr lived there earning the loyalty of the people in the village meant that they were welcoming of our people. Our protection for their loyalty and support with subsistence. It was the perfect compromise, and the rocky terrain made it hard to reach the Keep without first going through the city. Even in Ezio’s time, it was still an impenetrable location to anyone seeking entry not in the good graces of the people.”

“And it’s our inheritance,” Moussa said quietly. “I agree with Desmond. But we can’t discuss this with half a Council. Avery, round up our wayward members would you? We’ll discuss, and then present our deliberated pros and cons to the general assembly. This is too important for a very few to decide for all.” 

By the end of the week, they were packing up their resources, arranging for shipment overseas with a company that wasn’t in any way adverse to bribery, and they were headed home.

-/\\-

“Missing St. Louis yet?” Desmond asked, taking a deep breath of Syrian Autumn air. The lower lands were still quite warm, milder than the scorching summers but wetter, and it felt like he had come full circle. Aiden chuckled beside him, shrugging. 

“I guess. Chicago was where I was born and raised, though. It got too hot for me there... nowhere else has ever felt like I belonged.” He paused. “Des... if we secure this region, make friendly with the locals...”

“Your sister and nephew could join us and be safe,” Desmond offered. Aiden flashed a small, guarded smile. 

“I’m still thinking about even suggesting it. They’re safe right now, and honestly... they’re safer the farther away they are from me. My life it dangerous to people I care about. I’d just feel better if I could see them, be there to watch out for them. I’m... torn.”

“Whichever option you choose, you don’t have to ask for permission. Just do it.” 

“Thanks, man.” He took a deep breath and checked his watch. “About half an hour and then we can head out again.” Desmond nodded. He’d been making the rounds for his team, checking in, and he’d saved Charlie for last. Charlie had been unusually vulnerable ever since Jack and Terry had joined them - Jack was to be Cal’s first Apprentice once she completed her Initiate and Novice studies by sometime in the next two years, and Terry... she and the Other Jack, or Jack Prime as they’d been jokingly calling him until Jacqueline had allowed them to call her ‘Jacks’ or ‘Jackie’ instead, well. It was a culture shock for her, and his gentle demeanor seemed to be very appealing. A soft soul, Terry was already approaching her new position on the medical and mental wellness team with cautious and gaining enthusiasm.

Their presence had upset the delicate balance that Charlie had been successfully maintaining without anyone being the wiser, and Desmond had actually had to have Mavis clear him for active field duty before he was allowed to go out on their particular venture.

While everyone had crossed over, it was by general consensus that an advance scouting team would do a recon before they moved in. A decision being reached, they would fight for what was theirs if they had to and make it look like disgruntled locals to maintain their cover, but it was best to keep those not able to fight away from the conflict if there was to be any. The team consisted of Desmond - of course - with Avery, Charlie, Cal, Aiden, and Devon. They would be assessing technology, transportation capabilities, structural integrity, potential opposition, and overall viability. 

It wasn’t too taxing or even on the surface level dangerous, but Charlie had needed to be in a good mind to come, and his ever-more prominent battle for a stable personality with Shahin’s trying to assert itself had become more and more strained the longer he spent time around his old team. Jackie treated him as she always had, which seemed to help stabilize him, and Terry - on the advice of Mavis - usually asked him which personality he was exhibiting that day before interacting with him so that she could learn how to respond to both. 

At present, as the team waited to move from their hiding spot - evading the satellites as they were - Charlie seemed to be his own person. His quiet, reflective approach to the mission wasn’t anything like the bubbly portrayal of Shahin’s influence that he had permanently had for the first two years after escaping from Abstergo, and Desmond kept that in mind as he walked toward him. 

“How you doing?” He asked quietly. Charlie let out a soft, long breath through his nose and clenched his fingers around the hem of his robes.

“It’s a bad day,” he admitted. “Each day I work with Mavis, I get better, and it gets easier to be myself rather than _him_. But he was born near here, Des. And I wasn’t. It’s hard not to let him come out, especially when I let him mostly take over in the first place as a coping mechanism when I was in Abstergo. This is unfamiliar terrain, but he knows it better than I do...” 

“Altaïr and Ezio are the same way,” Desmond admitted, sitting beside him on the floor of the small cave. “Altaïr especially. The difference between you and me is that it’s a complete takeover, and that neither of them want it. They’re both... really, _really _far hidden in my head right now, trying to stay as far away from me as possible so that we don’t get an accidental switch. They have confidence in me, and know that this team will function better if I stay as me.” 

“Sounds exhausting.”

“About as exhausting as what you go through, probably.” Desmond shrugged. They’d been close before their respective mental illnesses had become public knowledge, but after they had come to light the two were all but inseparable. Brothers. If not by blood, then by bond. And Avery, while everybody’s little sister, was two adoption papers shy of being either of their little sister for real. Found family. 

It had been a draw for Assassin Initiates since the beginning. A place of acceptance, of belonging. Of like-minded people bound by purpose and calling under the Creed. It didn’t matter what your past was, only what you did with your future. The wealthy and the poor alike were made equal in the eyes of the Brotherhood. 

“Hey. If I... if I lose the fight today...” Charlie began hesitantly. Desmond laid a hand on his shoulder, prompting their eyes to meet.

“I’m not going to say you won’t, Charlie. I can’t guarantee that. “But this team will still fight as one capable unit either way. Don’t worry about us, we’ll adjust. You worry to much about other people. Right now, you need to worry about you.” 

“These robes are really uncomfortable,” Avery complained, interrupting their conversation. She was tugging at the hem of her tunic with disgust, and both men laughed at the expression on her face. 

It had been, curiosity of curiosities, Cal’s idea. They were to wear recreations of the robes of the late 12th to mid-13th century Levantine Brotherhood - even Aiden, who hated it because he couldn’t wear his hat - and the main weapon in their arsenal of the Templars were still occupying the Keep was to make them think they were being haunted. Silence and stealth were key, letting the enemy see them only in the light of the moon and the shadow of the dark. Of telling them to leave. 

And the biggest weapon in their arsenal they had was that, unlike the rest of them, Desmond’s face would be maskless. He was practically a carbon copy of Altaïr right down to the scar, and in the privacy of his head the two had even discussed letting Altaïr take over for the haunting bit to make it genuine. This plan would draw on the mythos and fear the Templars, despite their power, still held when it came to the memory of the great Assassins of old, and it would definitely make a point that Masyaf did not belong to them. 

Good luck finding a new team to occupy the Keep after their little ghost show.

This was, of course, merely a precaution. If they found the place empty, all the better. But as things rarely ever went that smoothly, it was definitely best to be prepared. All of them were even wearing a special glove that hid their ‘lost’ finger - a special design invented by their fabrics team - that Desmond really didn’t understand the mechanics of despite his best efforts. 

And Avery, who had been thriving under the general uniformity of their modern apparel, was chafing at the obvious distinction between those in study and those of completed rank. She kept tugging at the short hem of her tunic, glaring at Aiden - who had been given the navy robes of a Dai purely because it meant he wouldn’t be expected to be as active as the white-robed field Assassins. Altaïr had nearly had kittens over the perceived disrespect of that and had required Ezio to talk him off the ledge... in the end he’d given a _very _grudging blessing to go ahead with it. The fact still remained that, in the eyes of Avery, she was extremely put out that she was still merely a Novice for this assignment when Aiden, who wasn’t even an Assassin, got to wear a status of honor. 

“You’ll wear them without complaint,” Desmond said after looking her over. “You’re still underage.” 

“For two months,” she muttered mutinously, stalking away. “Come December 9th it’s over for you jerks.”

“She’s so cute when she acts tough,” Charlie commented with a smile. “But she will always be the baby of the family.”

“A hard position to inhabit,” Desmond chuckled. “Poor kid.” 

“Well, it’s our job to hound her for it,” Charlie said, stretching as he rose to a stand and offered a hand that Desmond readily accepted. They spent a few moments dusting themselves off before approaching the mouth of the cave where Aiden and Cal were crouching in wait. Devon and Avery were going over the needs of their vehicles and discussing how they might go about that a bit farther from the entrance, concerned over space requirements. 

The fact was, even though reports said that the Keep had been ‘modernized,’ they had no idea what they would find when they got there. A barely functional outpost with spotty signal, excavation lights, and badly-installed running water? Or a state of the art technological marvel of a listening station? Either way, they’d made do with less and could definitely get to work on making a base into a proper communal home. 

“Time to go,” Aiden whispered, checking his watch again. Without gauntlets, he was the only one still capable of wearing one and being able to conceal it. 

“Lovely,” Desmond sighed, pulling his cowl over his head and slouching forward ever so slightly to let the hood shield his eyes from the sun. The familiar weight of old weapons he’d never worn rested on his shoulders, the whisper and movement of fabric as he walked angling his legs in a specific manner. His chest was arched outward and his stomach in to avoid the thick leather belt at his waist chafing, and long-buried muscle memory he’d never actually formed had him slipping almost immediately into Altaïr’s tell-tale gait as they scrambled down the rocky terrain and onto the disused track. 

It may have been a century and some change in years shy of a millennium, but surprisingly little of the area had changed since Altaïr had walked it. Desmond felt his confidence as tour guide mounting more and more as they neared Masyaf, and when they eventually crested an overlooking hill to gaze down upon it... 

There were no words. The sun was setting, the coolness of night approaching. Deep shadows covered a city that, despite having modern buildings and technology, looked similar enough in layout that it took his breath away. A forgotten world lost in the shuffle and prohibited from progress by the Assassin-Templar fight. It was at once unfamiliar yet familiar, a strange mix of memory and modernity. And it still felt like home. 

Desmond’s eyes slowly traveled away from the town toward the height of the mountain, eyeing the Keep at the very top. He swallowed. Not only had the Templars modernized it, but they’d restored it to the former glory that only paid lip service to the decay Ezio had found. New stone had been cut and returned to slide into place against old, the wooden watchtower guarding the gate replaced with a modern slate brick one that they had someone modeled to match the old fortress for aesthetic purposes. 

_Beautiful, _Haytham breathed. There was a note of regret in his voice. _Altaïr... _

_I know, _Altaïr soothed softly. A mixed sadness and joy were present. _They restored it as posterity, a reminder that they were superior to the Assassins. But I care not how it came to be, Haytham. In fact, I find it fitting. It is not once, but twice now, that the Templars have given power back to the Assassins through their pride and arrogance. As I learned the hard way, such things rarely provide positive outcomes. The first mistake was to use the Animus on our descendants. In doing so, they trained a new generation in the old ways and gave them a vested interest. They set up their operation in the ruins of the Madrid stronghold, and thus provided access to weapons and escape. This mistake is their second, being so glutted with power as to practically gift-wrap the home of the modern Brotherhood and hand it back to us ready for use._

_As the people, so matches the stones, _Ezio murmured appreciatively. _Bené. It does fit like poetic tales of caution against vice. _

_I sometimes wonder if we _aren’t _living a fairy tale, _Edward muttered. His reaction to the Keep had been different from the others. Altaïr had been nostalgic, Ezio and Connor awed, Haytham apologetic. Edward was merely... humbled. The Brotherhood had been in decline when he had joined it, made worse by his own meddling. And here was a symbol of the endurance and potential that he hadn’t been able to himself witness. 

_Indeed, _Connor agreed. _With Those Who Came Before lurking like the old gods of Rome and Greece, and the endless eternal fight. It is very much a fairy tale that we live in now._

_But Grimm, rather than Disney, _Altaïr added with slight amusement. Desmond sighed softly at the comment and rolled his shoulders, leaping nimbly from the summit of the hill and skidding with purposeful caution down the extremely steep slope. The others followed suit. A silence hung among the corporeal members of the party, partly respectful and partly precaution of being discovered, and it was with this mix of reason that they darted from alcove to alcove between the buildings rather than walk openly down the streets. The odd security camera was always deftly avoided. 

Most of Masyaf appeared residential with a small mercantile district, the majority of the shop owners having flats above their places of business. Family owned, family operated. They had passed the agricultural fields most of these people worked in on their way toward the city. As they neared the choke-point, their progress slowed even further. 

“What now?” Aiden asked, voice barely loud enough to be considered a whisper, eyeing the only feasible way forward with unease. “There’s no cover. I can see why you guys want to take this place back so bad.”

“Pull on your hoods and pull up your masks,” Desmond ordered just as softly. He pulled a striped white and grey scarf from a pouch and wrapped it about his neck, both to keep out the chill of the night air and the cover his face. Getting caught and recognized _without _people thinking he was a ghost was _not _on his agenda. I’ll approach first, because I’m most familiar with this place. I want Avery and Charlie right behind, covering each other’s backs after I take the watchtower. I’ll give a signal. Cal, you come next. I don’t want either Aiden or Devon moving until the approach is clear.”

“This would’ve been easier if I’d been trained, huh?” Aiden muttered sourly, voice muffled by his mask. He’d resisted and turned down countless offers but was quickly coming to regret that decision.

“It’s more a question of having Eagle Vision,” Charlie explained matter of factly. “Which is why Devon’s staying behind too. It might be rare for someone in Vox Populi not to inherit the gift, but it happens.”

“Which is why I like drones so much,” Devon said cheerfully, taking no offense at the accurate summary. He’d accepted it long ago. “And hey, if you want training after this I’ll apply to be your mentor. Since I don’t have EV I know what it’s like.”

“I’ll... think about it,” Aiden replied, doubtful. Desmond gave his team one last look before nodding and stepping cautiously out into the open, eyes trained on the Keep with the deep indigo of Eagle Vision poised to pick out anyone who might spot him. There were throwing knives in each hand, and a longbow at his back; five arrows were attached to a special holster on his inner left leg for quick draw as he didn’t have time to get a full quiver. Altaïr walked with him, each footfall a half-remember echo and each breath one of anticipated homecoming. He had come home to hostile presence on several occasions and this was nothing new. 

_Watch the arch at the gate, _he cautioned. _Thick shadows provide ample cover. _

_And the ramparts? _

_Less of a concern at present. When you reach the tower, make your approach with an eye to them. _

Gravel crunched under his soft boots and Desmond winced, slowing his pace and lightening his steps. He crept with as little noise as possible further forward, leaving the sandy track with the loose stones behind, and moved with more freedom. A quick glance was spared for the ramparts and, finding them empty, he scaled the watchtower and let himself in through the skylight. It was entirely empty.

Inside the watchtower was a bank of monitors with the security feeds for the Keep, the Town, and the general surrounding area. Points to Abstergo, only an Assassin would have noticed them... 

_Can you pull up a schematic of the Keep? _Haytham asked. _Templars prefer tunnels to exterior buildings such as this if at all plausible to risk exposure. _His tone turned wry. _You never know when someone will drop out of the sky and slice your neck open..._

_Looks like they’ve got one, but I want to get the team in first, _Desmond returned absently as he scanned the feeds. A skeleton crew had been left, occupying what appeared to be a break room and looking entirely drunk. _Huh. Scaring these guys off’ll be a lot easier than I thought it would... _

After signaling the all clear, Desmond dutifully pulled up the schematics. His jaw dropped slightly when he saw the vast underground expansion that had been made, noting the power levels, the water pressure... 

_This is state of the art, complete with a Batcave secret waterfall entrance for a hangar and motor pool at the base of the mountain, _Edward whistled. 

_...I really hate that you guys understand pop culture references. _

_Then you shouldn’t have watched so many movies, _Connor retorted unconcernedly. 

_I read books too, _Desmond countered petulantly, startling slightly as Charlie and Avery dropped through the skylight. Charlie whistled, eyeing the setup appreciatively, while Avery went scouring for anything else of use in the watchtower. “Charlie, go back and secure Devon and Aiden when Cal gets here. All of you, come through the tunnel. And make a _lot _of noise. Got a bunch of drunks who think there’s no danger and it’ll spook ‘em.”

“And where are you going to be?” Charlie asked, crossing his arms and tilting his head.

“Scaling the ramparts and letting them see a ghost.”

“Why do you get to have all the fun?” Desmond pulled off his scarf and sighed, weighing the pros and cons. There was a soft vulnerability to Charlie’s question and it would really do no harm to have a partner in Scooby-Dooing these guys... 

“Avery!” Desmond called softly, the whisper sharp enough to promote urgency. Avery’s head whipped up over the lip of the floor from her low position on the staircase to the tunnel. “When Cal gets here I want you to get Devon and Aiden here. Charlie and I are going to be ghosting.”

“And after we get back here?”

“Tunnel. Be loud.”

“Creepy basement noises, got it.” She raised an eyebrow. “Have fun storming the castle.”

_I love her, _Ezio sighed indulgently, images of Claudia briefly flashing across Desmond’s vision. 

“Be careful,” he warned. Avery nodded. 

Charlie was on his heels as they crept toward the open gate and slipped inside, walking with measured steps across the old training yard toward what had once been the Mentor’s study. As they approached the entrance, Desmond slowed and stopped, gaze and feet rooted to the spot as he swallowed thickly.

“Des?” Charlie whispered. He merely pointed, the in-drawn breath of his friend and brother the only response necessary. 

At their feet lay the symbol of the Assassin’s Brotherhood, etched into the stone and inlaid with a darker rock than that surrounding it. The stone had cracked in multiple places with age but had endured, still strong despite the wear and tear it had been subjected to over the many centuries. The Assassins, the siege of Saladin’s forces, the corrupt reign of Abbas, the Mongol threat... the Templar ransacking and subsequent occupation until the time of Abstergo’s withdrawal. Still the symbol remained, the hairline fractures more a statement to longevity than a replacement of the flagstones would have ever been. 

“This is where the Hidden Ones became Assassins,” Desmond whispered. “Where they ceased to be the fragmented remnants of an old order and started the modern Brotherhood as we know it.” His breath hitched. “And in the Crusades, the Order of the Ancients reformed into the Templar order. A spirited religious zeal corrupted by an old enemy forged anew. Neither side began here, Charlie. But both were reborn in the crucible of the spilled blood and fire of the Holy Lands.”

“It’s quite the legacy we have to uphold,” Charlie agreed quietly. “You learn all that from Altaïr?” 

“Most people don’t know about Bayek and Amunet, and most have forgotten the story of Darius. But yes, I learned from Altaïr.” There was quiet for a few moments. “Charlie... in a minute I’m not going to be here. Just... he likes you, okay? And he trusts you. Please do the same.”

“Des, what-“ Charlie’s eyes widened in understanding and he swallowed heavily, nodding.

-/\\-

_Altaïr’s feet were nimble and precise as they ran along the beams of the vaulted ceiling with Charlie close behind him, reminding him so much of Darim in his true mannerisms that it was all he could do to meet his gaze through Desmond’s eyes. To the man’s credit he followed dutifully, waiting for his cues and not questioning a single one._

_They made sure to dash along a beam that cast their shadows across the stone floor of the room where the drunks were playing cards, the raucous laughter stopping abruptly as they paused. Fearful eyes lifted to see two silhouettes crouching on a beam above them, framed perfectly by the moonlight of the window behind them. With the wetter season came misty nights, and an open window was let some of that in to turn to fog. The rest of the team did their job as well, loud banging noises erupting from the stairway leading to the lower levels. _

_«You should not have come here!» Altaïr shouted in Arabic, voice ringing with authority and all of the disgust he felt toward these people who had defiled what had once been his home. «Leave! Leave now! Or I shall not stay my blade!» _

_“What are you, demon!?” Someone whimpered. He dropped neatly to the floor in a crouch and slowly stood, walking forward until they could clearly see his face in the light of table lamp. “...The Great Mentor himself...”_

_“It’s the Eagle of Masyaf, returned from the dead to kill us!” Another shouted, scrambling for the door. “Run!” _

_“W- we were leaving tomorrow anyway,” the first chuckled nervously, backing toward the exit as the other three men with her made a break for it and followed their companion out into the night. _

_«Go!» _

_“I’m sorry! It will never happen again, I swear!” Then Charlie dropped from the rafters and she screamed, all sense of decorum lost, and ran for her life. A few moments later Avery, Cal, Devon, and Aiden joined them._

_“That sure was something,” Devon breathed. “Talk about presence, Des. How’d you manage to-“_

_“Desmond allowed me to take back what was mine,” Altaïr said clearly and succinctly, watching as the man paled._

_“...Oh. Right.”_

_“Hi Alty,” Avery said shyly, hugging him. Altaïr stiffened first a few moments before smiling and hugging her back, chin resting on the top of her head as he gazed at the ceiling deep in thought. _

_“Hello, Avery.”_

-/\\-

It had taken the rest of the Brotherhood about a month to move in, and as November began drawing to a close the first frost had struck. Devon had gotten all of their vehicles and their singular plane stored away in the massive underground facility, and Aiden had double and triple checked all of the electronics for faults. Every room was heated, lit, and had air conditioning for the summer months. The place was well-insulated with the thick stone and the latest in window sealing and bulletproof glass, and the doors had been reinforced with about fifty extra security precautions. They had an over-abundance of living quarters and the Mentor’s old study had been converted into their tactical room on the top level, the lower level that had been the library converted into archives and data acquisition. Mavis, who had complained that her former office in Madrid had been like a jail cell, decided begrudgingly that it was only fair her office in Masyaf was actually _in _the old dungeons. 

Most of the cells had been converted into tiny work station cubicles during Abstergo’s tenure save for a small holding in the deepest and darkest corner, and they kept it that way. Desmond had taken a week to travel with Avery to collect the Masyaf Keys from where Ezio had hidden them, and he gave them to Moussa who in turn selected Council Members at random to secret them away where none would find them without the proper code. With Desmond’s all-access tissue scarring, they were able to enter the Vault that Altaïr had built anyway. Just... no one had done so yet, and Desmond wasn’t willing to yet say why. 

The last part of the moving was the setting up of the new Animus holographics chamber, and when that was done there was no longer any reason to delay.

He selected a special group to accompany him in, the others told to wait in assembly without being told why. When they emerged with Altaïr’s bones, they knew. With the Assassins completely restored to Masyaf, he could finally be laid to rest. 

They buried his remains in the spot where Malik had given instructions to lay Sef’s before his betrayal at the hands of Abbas, where they had buried Maria. Where Altaïr’s father, Omar, and his mother, Maud, had been laid to rest. There was nothing in that tiny clearing but rubble and dust, dying grass. But Desmond knew, and in turn it was right. 

No last rites were spoken, because they had already been given by Ezio. 

“That’s the last of it,” Desmond sighed as he deposited the Apple of Aguilar next to the Apple of Altaïr inside the Vault, tucked away in yet another hidden wall partition that required special activation. “I’m glad it’s out of my pocket now.”

“We have room to put whatever we find in here, to safeguard the world from any of it ever being used,” Charlie breathed worriedly. “But what if someone decides that the Assassins should use them, to further the cause?” Desmond’s smile was wry. 

“Well, then they’ll have to kill me and find the Masyaf Keys, now won’t they?” 

-/\\-

_“Rebecca, look what I’ve just found,” Shaun breathed, holding out an Abstergo Employee Incident Report. “The Templars left Masyaf. The last ones to leave said that they were told to leave by the Ghost of the Eagle of Masyaf.”_

_“They were drunk, Shaun,” Rebecca sighed. “It says so right in the report.”_

_“I know, but... it’s a bit odd, don’t you think, that they say they saw Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad? Especially when Desmond could be his clone?” _

_“...Maybe,” Rebecca said after a long while, chewing on her lip. For the first time in a long time, she felt like she could allow herself to hope. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GENERAL HOUSEKEEPING NOTE: Masyaf does exist in the real world and is a modern center today. However, just as Ubisoft took creative license with the appearance of Monteriggioni, I shall be taking creative license with Masyaf - which in the game was partly based on the city of Alamut in what is modern day Iran. As you saw described in the chapter, rather than being a sprawling modern city center it was all but forgotten by the world due to people not wanting to settle there to avoid the Templars ransacking it in the early 16th century. As a result, the buildings and institutions may be modern but it’s the equivalent of a small farming community rather than a metropolitan hub, the lands passed down through the families stubborn enough to remain there over the centuries. 


End file.
